Finkle and Fury
by CSI Clue
Summary: Can the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. even *have* a romance? Much less with a plump, Jewish obstetrician? (adjacent to my Loki/Cynara series.)
1. Chapter 1

Finkle and Fury

**Finkle**

When I agreed to be Ms Sigyn-Laufeyson's obstetrician, I'd done so because the idea of being involved with an extraterrestrial pregnancy was too fascinating to pass up. I wasn't kidding when I'd told her I'd always wanted this since watching the X-Files and it's still true. Lots of people think Exobiology is just a theoretical science but I'd like to be on the cutting edge of anything to do with visitors from space.

Unfortunately to get to visitors from space I had to go through assholes from earth, namely S.H.I.E.L.D. and their mountains of paperwork. Luckily I'm a determined person, and the official liaison, Special Agent Coulson is a pretty nice guy under all the dark suit blandness he projects. It's camouflage of course; Man in Black sort of stuff. Thanks to him I was able to get through the various briefings, debriefings, classified documentations and receive my own Level Three pass. Now I'm allowed into most S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities and I've even been on the fancy-pants helicarrier. Normally I kvetch about how my tax dollars are spent, but that helicarrier brings a tear to my eye—_so_ cool.

Anyway the point is, I was drafted for the duration of Ms. Sigyn-Laufeyson's pregnancy, and while that caused all sorts of re-arrangements with my own practice and Doctor Hildy Abo, my partner, I had to admit that the end result was pretty cool. Not that I was bored with delivering human babies—far from it. I love my profession, and I'm damned good at it. No, I think what I mean to say is that it's neat to be able to take my skills into another sphere. I was going to be the first obstetrician to bring an extraterrestrial hybrid into the world!

That is going to look SO good on my CV, when I can finally list it.

Still, I couldn't monitor Cynara—Ms Sigyn-Laufeyson—every minute of the day, so S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me an office in the Infirmary of the helicarrier and put me on the roster there. Three doctors, six nurses and three medic teams. I was given the option of doing research or taking a shift of duty, so naturally being the overachiever I am, I chose to do both. I spent my time bandaging up agents who got too close to exhaust vents or got careless with heavy machinery, listened to a lot of gossip and generally kept busy. Made some friends, too—Phil Coulson for one, and David Agrino, the chief surgeon.

In fact, it was all pretty good as long as I didn't have to talk to Nick Fury.

Fury, gah! He's a large brooding collection of everything that pushes my buttons bad AND good, and it doesn't help that he's the boss. Of _everything_, according to my S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook. Colonel Nick Fury has unlimited authority over anyone who's in the organization and his whole attitude is that anything you've got to say is either something he's heard before or something he thinks is asinine.

I don't _do_ well with that sort of machismo. It's not like he polishes guns or swaggers around or anything—don't get me wrong. He's got what it takes to back up his attitude, certainly but it doesn't mean I have to put up with it. The agents around here think Colonel Fury is either the greatest soldier since Captain America or the baddest badass you don't want to be on the wrong side of. Me? I think he's forgotten how to be human.

Seriously, I can't imagine him having a good belly laugh, or farting, or rooting for the Jets. It probably hurts him to smile, and I doubt he's ever sung in his life. He's all about strategy and defense and the ongoing military-related stuff S.H.I.E.L.D. generates, and normally I'd just stay out of his way, but no, he wants regular updates on Cynara's health, and because patient/doctor confidentiality is sort of moot in this case, I'm required to have 'consultations' with him.

The first few were dry readings of my reports, and I tried not to let his gaze intimidate me, but it wasn't easy. Fury may have only one eye visible but it's got the intensity of a flare and that combined with the general non-smiling nature of his expression could make stainless steel sweat. Believe me, it's damned hard not to be intimidated, but by the third time I decided I wasn't going to let him scare me. After all, I was the baby expert, right?

So I walked in, sat down and looked across the desk without opening the report. He made a 'go ahead' gesture and I tossed it onto the desk, then got up and leaned over it to look at him. "Colonel, I can email this to you; you do know that, right?"

"I do," he came back, steepling those fingers of his together. "But I _prefer_ doing it _this_ way so if I need any clarification I don't have to bother with emailing you _back_, Doctor Finkle."

"You haven't had any questions so far," I pointed out. "Not one, which means I'm either wasting my time, or you are."

For the record, stare-downs with the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. are scary and I don't recommend them. I kept it up though, and made myself consider how attractive his goatee was. I like them; not so much the landscaped sort that Mr. Stark wears, but the scruffy kind currently on the Colonel's chin.

He looked ready to hold his gaze for the next three days, but I decided I didn't want to keep going and tapped the report with my nail, breaking our stalemate. "Look, the basic numbers are dutifully recorded as are my other medical notations. If you want my input or opinions, just ask. If you don't have anything to ask, then I respectfully submit that we're done here."

That should have been it; I should have been able to sweep out of that office with a swagger and collapse in a heap of giggles in the elevator, glad to be alive after that confrontation, but no, nooo, that's not how it went down.

Truth is, _I_ went down. I've got this weak ankle, legacy of all that roller derby practice with mom, and just as I was giving Fury my best glare, it wobbled and down I went, disappearing from his sight like a puppet yanked off the stage.

So much for standing my ground, right?

**Fury**

There are a lot of things I don't have time for. Some of them I don't give a damn about, like finding parking spots, or gossiping around some damn water cooler in some office building trying to figure out how to keep up with the neighbors or get my kids into fancy schools. Those are things that I and my organization are protecting so thousands of citizens CAN do them. S.H.I.E.L.D. handles the boundaries of necessary defense and we do it damned well because we're dedicated to the job.

I've been running S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than many of my teams have been _alive_, and it's one I'm good at doing. I've been on the job through more wars, police actions, operations and military interventions and in all that time I've pulled together the best people to get the work done.

Frankly I don't deal with civilians all that well. If Stark is any example then it should be clear that I prefer people _trained_ to recognize and follow authority. I'd hoped that would be the case with Doctor Josephine Finkle, who for the record would _not_ have been my choice of obstetrician. No slight on the woman's credentials, but I reiterate, she's a civilian and not at all familiar with military protocol.

But trying to find a balance between appeasing a pair of capricious aliens and dealing with the only rune expert working for S.H.I.E.L.D. made it necessary to compromise a bit. Coulson vouched for Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson's choice and when the woman was willing to sign on as a consultant I decided to let things stand.

Let me make it clear that I wasn't interested in this pregnancy because I'm a sentimentalist. My concern lay _strictly_ with the politics of the situation and not with the biological details. Still, keeping on top of the developments was part of being prepared for whatever might happen. I expected Doctor Finkle to understand that, and comply with my simple request of weekly briefings. The first two went fine, and then the woman tried to get in my face during the third one about it being a waste of time.

Since S.H.I.E.L.D. was paying her I didn't really see it that way and was prepared to point that out when she . . . fell. Doctor Finkle went down like a condemned building and it took me a moment to realize this wasn't some sort of combat roll or defensive maneuver. I swung myself over the desk and reached her just as she looked up at me and I've never seen anyone so damned pink. Would have laughed if I didn't think it would piss her off further.

"Bad ankle," she told me. "Roller derby injury."

That hadn't come up in her background check. I won't say I was impressed, but having seen some fierce match-ups in my time there might have been a moment of re-consideration. I watched her slip off her pump and flex her foot for a second before speaking.

"Are you going to be able to walk?"

"I need to wrap it first," Finkle told me. "Not even a class one sprain. Ice and elevation; I'll be fine."

I moved to make a call, but she reached out and caught my sleeve.

Nobody grabs my sleeve.

Ever.

I looked down and she let go, still pink, but talking quickly. "No. If you call and someone has to come get me, I'm going to end up an even bigger joke than I already am on this flying barge, Colonel. I can wrap it myself and if you walk me to the infirmary nobody has to know, all right?"

She had a point, and just because I wasn't thrilled to have an obstetrician on staff didn't mean life had to be any more difficult for either of us.

"Stay put," I told her, and went out to the First Aid locker just outside my office. When I handed it to Finkle she dug out the ace bandage and tried to start, but it wasn't going to work. Ever try to wrap your own ankle, especially when your ass is on the floor?

I took the bandage from her and got to work, even as she started to sputter about it, mostly because she was in a skirt. I didn't say anything but I took my time wrapping. Nice ankle, as those go. I'm not a leg man myself, but Finkle's looked to be pretty good. "Too tight?"

"No, it's fine. You've done this a lot, haven't you?" she asked me in a quiet voice.

I nodded. "You could save I've had some experience with bandages."

"I bet." She handed me the butterfly clip and I finished it off, then rose up and held out a hand to haul Finkle to her feet.

Strong grip for such a small hand.

"Thank you," she told me, and worked her foot back into her pump. "Okay then, I'll just get going . . ."

She would have gone down again if I hadn't caught her elbow, and it became clear to both of us that I was definitely going to have to walk her back.

It went about as well as you can imagine. Every time someone came down the hall Finkle would let go of me and pretend we'd stopped for a little chat until they passed us by. Since _everyone_ under my jurisdiction knows I don't _do_ small talk it was about as believable as the Easter Bunny.

Still, the woman needed my help, and civilian or not she deserved her dignity. I let her hang onto me and shortened my stride, thinking it had been a long damned time since I'd done anything like this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Finkle**

Stupid ankle. It took me three days to get back to normal, and when anyone asked I simply told them it had given out. Nobody needed to know it was in front of the colonel, thank God. I iced it, glad I wasn't on the boards anymore—Mom still has the rink moves, but me? I prefer a life with _all_ my front teeth.

Phil was the one person I suspected might know where I was when it happened; he's sharp that way. He didn't ask though, just gave me that quiet grin of his when I kvetched about the reports.

"It's the way he does things. Don't make the mistake of thinking the colonel isn't up on the latest technology, doctor—he's up to speed believe me. He just prefers face to face for the important issues."

"Be that as it may, it's just . . . unnerving," I shot back. We were having coffee in the infirmary kitchenette, and I was still trying to get used to the bitter tar that passed for coffee on the helicarrier. Half a bottle of creamer still didn't cut through it.

"He's good at that," Phil agreed, and then asked, "Are you going to that reception next week? The one Stark and the U.N. are throwing for that new island nation?"

I looked at him. "I don't know; should I?"

"It would be worth it," Phil shrugged. "The food will be good, and there's always a chance Stark will make an ass of himself. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't get invited to many parties, so we tend to make the most of the ones that come our way."

"I'm not really a member of S.H.I.E.L.D." I pointed out reluctantly. I love parties.

"You're a member," Phil assured me. "Hill's bringing her significant other."

"How about you?" I asked him, and he shrugged.

"Stag. Holly's quartet is still on tour, and she's played at so many of these things she'd be bored anyway."

"Can I bring a guest?" I had someone I owed a favor to, and I knew he'd get a huge kick out of it.

"Sure," Phil told me. "Although we'll probably have to do a quick background check."

"He'll be thrilled," I smirked.

I was right; Doctor Harry Stern has been a buddy of mine from back when he was just Harry, the kid two doors down, and the idea of going to a U. N. party had him over the moon. He teaches Poly Sci at our old high school, and out of all the friends I've grown up with, he's one of the few who would know some of the attendees on sight. I was counting on him to fill me in on who we were chatting with.

Nothing romantic between us; Harry was between wives at the moment and in any case we'd known each other too long and too well to be anything but good friends. Still, he's handsome enough in a geeky professor sort of way. I couldn't tell him exactly _why_ I was working for S. H.I.E.L.D. of course but he said he understood and didn't ask for details.

The party was the Rivington Hotel in Manhattan, and it was pretty high-falutin' for a girl from Perth Amboy, let me tell you. I was glad I'd gone with my dressy grey silk pantsuit and big ruby earrings. Harry and I circulated for a while, enjoying the canapés, and I even saw Mr. Stark zipping around, followed by the cool redhead who saved all those people in Flushing. Finally, way across the room I spotted Maria Hill, who was in her S.H.I.E.L.D dress uniform and standing with an exotically gorgeous man with a turban.

She introduced us to her date, Lieutenant Colonel Monty Singh Jatta, and we chatted a while. Harry knew what to ask; I just listened and nodded a lot. Right when we all were running out of things to say, I looked up and spotted Fury on the upper balcony, glaring down at me.

Yikes.

I couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong, and it was unnerving as hell, so after handing my champagne flute to Harry and making my excuses, I climbed the stairs and reached Fury, who didn't even turn to look at me when I approached him.

"Is something wrong, Colonel?" I wanted it to come out all cool and confident, but I squeaked a little, damn it.

"Parties," he replied in a growl, his big hands gripping the railing as he kept looking over it. "Large gatherings of important people are a dangerous temptation to anyone with a political agenda."

"Okay then, it's not something _I_ did," I told him.

He finally _did_ turn to look at me, shooting one of those withering stares he's so good at, but it didn't faze me now that I knew what was bothering him. I put my hands on my hips. "Well, have fun keeping an eye on things."

Shit. The minute that left my mouth I cringed. God, could I have _been_ any more thoughtless?

Fury cocked his head and I covered my face with my hands. "Damn it, I'm so sorry. I just wasn't thinking-"

**Fury**

It took a hell of a lot not to crack a grin; woman didn't mean it, I know, and seeing her blush amused the hell outta me. I cleared my throat to make it clear I didn't take it personally.

She looked confused, so I waved a hand as well and this time Finkle got it.

After that, I wasn't sure what to say, so I let my gaze drop to her shoes. Black suede heels that sure as hell were going to land her on her ass again. "How's the ankle?"

"Functional."

"You _know_ what you've got on those feet is going to end up _killing_ you, right? You're aware that heels in any sort of firefight are dangerous?"

"It's a _par_-ty, not a war zone, Colonel."

I wanted to point out that the change from one to the other would happen, _could_ happen in seconds. I knew that, so did my team. People like Finkle though, they're not in the business of looking for trouble, so they stay naïve and trusting.

They need people like us to keep them that way.

"If you say so," I told her, and turned back to the railing. Good as my people are, I like to see what they're seeing. I expected Finkle to head back down and rejoin her escort, the civics teacher with the dubious credit history. He'd downed enough drinks that I considered having Phil cut him off so he'd be safe to drive once this shindig was over.

No point in losing the good doctor to a DUI or worse.

"Well okay then," she mumbled and moved to go. Then she stopped and looked back at me. "Tell me, do you _ever_ have fun, Colonel?"

That hurt. The eye patch thing, I'm used to that, sure. Get it all the time. But an intimation that I may have lost touch with the core of humanity inside myself? That's harder to deal with, especially since I've had to ask myself the same question occasionally.

I deflected it. "What do _you_ think, Doctor?"

Anyone else would have given up and walked away; I've been told I'm intimidating at times.

Not _this_ time, apparently. Finkle came over and joined me at the railing.

Kinda liked the way she had her hair up.

"Me, I think it's been a long damn time since you did," she murmured.

She had me there. Back in the day when the world was younger I _did_ have time for other things besides making sure aliens stayed off the planet and dictators didn't level any nations. And yeah, it had been a long damned time. Years. Decades more like. Not feeling sorry for myself; I knew what the job entailed when I signed up.

We were quiet for a moment.

"You ought to get back to the party," I told her. "Be careful on the stairs."

I watched her head back down.

Definitely liked her hair up.

It didn't take long for Stark to take center stage and make a big noise about welcoming the new nation. Little woman in charge of the place looked kinda amused by him and let him dance with her out on the floor. More drinks, more good times. Felt a little like Barton up here watching it all, but as long as everything was normal I didn't mind.

Much.

By midnight it was pretty clear that Doctor Civics teacher wasn't in any shape to operate heavy machinery so I gave Coulson the go-ahead to make sure the man got home safely. Finkle was coming back to the helicarrier with _me_ since we were due for a rendezvous with Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson in the morning. Luckily Finkle knew that before we climbed into rotor squad transport and didn't make a fuss.

Trip from Manhattan to the helicarrier took about forty minutes all told and in that time the woman fell asleep. I didn't hold it against her, long day and all, but when Finkle ended up leaning against my shoulder I didn't exactly move, either. Since it was dark, I figured it was nobody's business if I chose to be a pillow or not.

I nudged Finkle right before we landed; enough to wake her without making it obvious it was me. One thing I've learned over the years is that nobody's ready for _my_ face when they first wake up, especially in the dark. She sat up and went a little stiff when she realized where she'd been but I didn't say anything until we were crossing the flight deck.

"We'll be in Canada by morning so I suggest you get some sleep. Goodnight, Doctor."

Then she does that sleeve thing again. Just a little touch this time, on my forearm.

"Good idea. And thanks for making sure Harry gets home safely—I think he was a little overwhelmed tonight. Goodnight, Colonel."

I went up to the bridge and spent a few hours reminding people who was in charge, and thinking about nothing in particular.

Especially not about anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Finkle**

By the time we arrived at Outpost Nord it was snowing, which was probably a good thing since I figured it might cool down my blushes. I couldn't believe I'd fallen asleep _on_ the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and what's more, apparently survived the incident. Either the colonel was a lot more tolerant of human weaknesses than I'd originally thought, or he hadn't actually noticed.

I wasn't sure which train of thought I wanted to be true, so I busied myself packing up what I would need to see Cynara, and then went to hit up the quartermaster for a parka and mittens. By the time I made it out to the rotor transport, I found myself sitting next to the huge blonde guy they called Thor. I couldn't believe he had bare arms in this weather.

"Hail, midwife to my brother's bride!" he beamed at me.

"Juuust call me Josie," I told him, grinning. "Aren't you cold?"

"This?" he waved an arm out at the snow and shook his head. "This reminds me of home!"

I was about to ask more when the colonel climbed in. Thor beamed at him too and there I was, sandwiched between the pair of them and feeling small for the first time in years. Honestly, I'm a big woman. I've _always_ been big and I decided early on that I wasn't going to ruin my life trying to be something else. My health is good and I can clean anyone's clock on the rink, but sitting there between Thor and the colonel made me feel like chipmunk between lions.

And I was plenty warm, you bet.

Cynara was glad to see me, and we chatted for a bit before getting down to business. I took blood and urine, palpitated her belly and made some notes all while hearing about her diet, her sleep and exercise. She was doing great so far; nothing out of place from what I could tell. The quick analysis showed she was taking her pre-natals like a good little mommy-to-be, but I'd run a more extensive one on the samples once I was back in the labs. I let her talk and answered her questions, feeling good that I was back in my professional groove here.

I asked about baby daddy, and got an earful; apparently Loki Laufeyson was Thor's _adopted _brother and yet another form of humanoid alien known as an Ice Giant. Cynara told me what she knew which wasn't much; mostly that he was impervious to cold, had phenomenal strength and held a serious grudge against his stepfather. Interesting, but not exactly helpful for biological purposes. Still, it was pretty clear she was in love with him and determined to deal with having this baby.

I urged her to take a nap and went out to talk to Thor. He was tossing his hammer up in the air—not a euphemism here—and catching it, looking like a big kid. When I mentioned Loki, he gave me a little more information. "The Jotunn have ice within them, and can work with the elements. Loki has also learned much dark magic, which may have stained his soul."

Not much more help in terms of genetics, but I nodded and scooped up some snow, packing it into a good snowball. Managed to hit the side of the rotor transport, which was probably childish of me, but hey, snow.

Thor was amused and made a snowball too, but I stopped him from aiming at our ride, figuring he'd probably punch a hole through it with _his_ strenght and urged him to pick a more distant target. So he managed to nail the guard patrolling the perimeter about a half mile away.

Oops.

I hurried towards the fallen man, but Thor was quicker and retrieved him so I could check the rising bruise on the back of his head and try not to snicker. Thor of course was completely remorseful, offering to carry the guard the rest of the way to the outpost, but Jeff Sandoval—that was his name—declined sheepishly.

In the fuss over Jeff I hadn't realized that the rotor transport had left. I was about to freak a little over being left behind when Fury came down the steps, looking first at Thor then at Jeff then at me. Don't know about the other two but I immediately felt guilty.

"Helicarrier's been called it for an emergency rescue operation in the North Sea," he told us, standing there with his wrists folded behind his back. How that man could wear leather in the snow I'll never know. "We're going to sit tight here until they get back." He gave the guard a disapproving look and waved him into the building, then glared at Thor and me.

"Let's try _not_ to put any more people out of commission," Fury grunted at us. That left Thor looking like a scolded Golden Retriever, so I patted his arm and promised to cook him something nice to make up for it.

Cynara gave me a tour through the kitchen and that's when I realized that despite the remote locale, the place was pretty well stocked.

Time to work some magic with brisket, I figured. _That_, I could do.

Cooking with Thor was fun. He was eager to help, and had a ton of stories about food. Since we were stuck at the outpost for a while I thought it would be helpful to keep him busy and maybe pick up a few more details about his adopted brother. Plus it gave _me_ something to do with my hands.

My mother would have been proud.

So, braised brisket, new potatoes and a salad—enough for myself, Cynara, Thor, the colonel and the two guards left with us. Instead of any formal sit-down I set it up buffet style and made Cynara go first. The colonel looked like he was going to decline, but I gave him a stern look and pushed a plate into his hands.

"Nothing doing; I cooked it, you eat it," I told him. "Nu?"

He looked at the plate and then at me. "Fine, fine, no need to plotz, Finkle."

For a minute I could only blink. Yiddish?

Fury knew Yiddish?

He must have realized he'd startled me because he leaned in and added, "Never figured you for a baleboste on top of everything else," and grinned.

God in heaven, Fury grinned at me. I had no idea the man could even _do_ that.

It was quick, but definitely, definitely a grin.

**Fury**

Living in a city like New York, things rub off on a person. Habits. Attitudes. Languages. I'd picked up some Yiddish over the decades along with Italian, German, and bits of Dutch, and I won't deny that it was fun to see Finkle react to it. The food brought it out in me; haven't tasted a good brisket in years, and this one was damned good.

Food isn't something I think about too often, much less home-made meals, because back in my day food meant companionship. Your compatriots, your brothers in arms, sometimes if you lucky enough to have one, your family. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't big on families or sit-down dinners. I try to make sure my people have enough time off to share in dinners with their own loved ones regularly—they _need_ that. They need to remember what needs to be defended.

Damned good brisket. Thor loaded up and looked like he'd arm-wrestle anyone going for seconds before him.

I considered it, but before anything happened, Sigyn-Laufeyson divided the rest into portions and served them up. "No bloodshed at the table," she told us, giving everyone a glare.

I could live with that.

Afterwards I checked in and found out the North Sea situation was taking a little longer due to weather, but things were under control. No hot spots flaring up anywhere, no urgent messages for the moment and no operatives checking in. Usually when this happens I head to the gym, but having just eaten, I opted to check out the range instead.

Shot a few rounds with the .45, grouping them pretty damned well inside the ten ring if I do say so myself when Finkle showed up to watch. I pointed to the posted rules and ear protection rack, then got back to firing.

When the targets rolled up, Finkle came closer and looked at them. Couldn't tell if she was impressed or appalled, but she stared at me and asked, "Can I try?"

There were a thousand reasons I should have said 'no,' not the least being the fact that it was damned clear Finkle had never even _held_ a gun in her life. But I didn't have anything else to do, and she'd cooked dinner, so it seemed only fair to return the favor.

Besides, it might come in handy. Not that I was planning on trouble, but it's been my experience that it generally shows its ugly face when you don't expect it. So I nodded and after a ten minute technical lecture, I found myself coaching Finkle into the correct stance and moving behind her to help brace for the recoil.

The woman smelled good; hell of a lot better than the smokeless propellant around us. I encouraged her to focus and fire; just as I predicted the recoil had Finkle bouncing back against me. Wasn't supposed to feel nice, but it did.

Her first shot clipped the edge of the ninth ring.

"That was good, right?"

"Do it again," I told her, mostly to keep Finkle from getting too cocky.

She fired again, planting one just inside the seventh ring, and I reached to help steady her arms, which turned out to be one big damned mistake.

I _should_ have been bracing Finkle's arms and telling her to focus on the target. Instead I was wrapped around the back of the woman and trying _not_ to respond to the big round temptation grinding against the lower part of me.

Yeah I like'em big. I'm _also_ head of one of the biggest covert military operations on the planet, and as such not _supposed_ to let something like booty put me off my focus.

The fact that Finkle wasn't even doing it on _purpose_ made it that much more difficult. I backed up a little and she fired again, getting the hang of the recoil, concentrating on the target and not paying attention to me. Small blessing there until she turned her head, whispering to my blind side. "It's pretty hard."

It _took_ me a moment to realize she was talking about the whole process of shooting, and not, say, making a personal observation.

"Practice helps."

"Mmm," Finkle murmured. She didn't pull the trigger again so we stood there for a few seconds, not moving. It's been my experience that in dangerous situations it's best to stay still, and this _clearly_ fit into that category.

Getting _more_ dangerous by the minute, in fact.

Doesn't mean I moved away though. For all I knew Finkle could start firing again any minute.

She didn't. Woman just stood there damned near _snuggling_ back against me.

And that was the _precise_ moment when I realized I might have a sweet, big-assed problem with objectivity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Finkle**

It's a good thing I've got steady hands because the rest of me wanted to shake. Not only did I have the colonel wrapped around me in all his seriously macho glory, but I was feeling something _more_ back there as well.

And _that_ sort of changed my perspective on matters. I mean it's been a while, but I was feeling definite proof that a certain tall dark and handsome badass _liked_ me, woof! Of course, I wasn't going to _say_ anything, but his body language was loud and clear, and I had to fight against the giggles.

So far I'd done pretty well with the targets, which was a surprise to me, actually. I'm not pro or anti gun; I've seen what they can do and I respect the people who know how to use them. The only reason I had Fury's in my hand was because I'd asked, not expecting him to say yes.

Still, I didn't want to drop the thing, so I lowered my arms and tried to act cool.

Tried.

"Uh, I think that's good," I managed, and then wanted to kick myself because it sounded so lame.

Fury didn't say anything, but he moved around and took the gun, flicking the safety on and not looking at me. He hit the button to bring the targets up and replaced them, handing mine to me wordlessly.

"Thanks," I managed, still trying to keep things light.

"You're pulling to the right," Fury told me. "A forty-five's too heavy for you. Better off with a Glock, probably a twenty-six."

"Uh, yeah." More conversational brilliance by me.

It was clear Fury wasn't going to say anything about our gun-cuddling and for a moment I wondered if I had it wrong, but when I caught him licking his lips . . . that confirmed it.

I smiled, making sure I held his gaze. "Okay then, I'm going to bed. Thanks again for sharing your gun with me . . . Nick."

That was just sassy enough to cap things so I made my way out of the range, trying not to look over my shoulder and fighting down a grin.

Sleeping arrangements were easy; the outpost had plenty of bedrooms—Spartan but comfortable—and I turned in after one last check on Cynara. Slept fine and by morning Thor told me over breakfast that the helicarrier would be back within two hours. He was making pancakes and doing a pretty good job of it, despite the fact they were each the size of a manhole cover.

Apparently Asgardians have the metabolism of cheetahs; something to keep in mind. I watched him plow through a stack of five, made sure he didn't choke, and went to check on Jeff the guard, who assured me he was fine.

Sure enough the helicarrier arrived a while later and we all left Cynara working on some chunk of runestone in the basement.

You might be wondering why S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't just leave me with her full-time, right? Would have been a logical thing, but according to regulations for me to attend her (and get paid for it,) I had to be a member of S.H.I.E.L.D., and that meant I had to serve at least a six months on the helicarrier. Since she and I would be pretty busy in the last three months of her pregnancy, it seemed smart to get the tour of duty done early.

Anyway, that was the powers that be's reasoning for my being up on the flying runway.

For the next three weeks I barely saw the colonel, and I wasn't sure if I was upset about that, or glad. Apparently there were lots of missions and military-type things going on because those of us in the infirmary would get surges of business every few days. I stitched and patched people up, and worked alongside Chief Agrino digging bullets out of the more severely injured.

During the other times I did the lab work on Cynara's samples, dutifully noting everything, wrote up my observations and fretted. Not so much about her, since nearly everything looked completely normal so far, but over the colonel. Had I gone too far? Pushed when I should have played coy? Second-guessing myself was a rotten habit so I tried to stop doing it and concentrate on other things.

But then there was some sort of mission to clear out some lost base down in South America. Phil couldn't tell me much except that the place dated back to the Second World War and some group associated with the Nazis. I had no idea why S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to step in; we were light-years from the weaponry of the Forties, but from the look on Phil's face it _was_ a big deal.

Apparently the colonel himself was leading the team, and up in the infirmary we received notice to stand by.

We stood by.

I tried not to fidget, but it was difficult, especially since I didn't have any idea what sort of injuries we might be dealing with and had visions of everything from bayonet wounds to tank casualties. It seemed like every old war movie I'd ever seen played in my head as I waited, and I realized it was because I was anxious about you-know-who.

Which was probably stupid, because everyone I'd ever talked to assured me that Fury was pretty much bullet-proof. He was nearly as much a legend as Captain Rogers apparently, and given the way he handled his gun I had some faith that he knew what he was doing.

When the injured started coming in I waited for the chief to triage them around; he took one poor stranger with a fractured skull and waved me to one of the curtained bays to deal with a through and through bullet wound to the bicep. I moved around the curtain, gearing myself to deal with the injury and found myself looking at none other than Colonel Fury himself.

With no shirt on.

Ohhhhh.

**Fury**

As many people will attest, I am _not_ blessed with much of a sense of humor, and generally the things that bring a little light to my day consist of seeing Stark screw up. It's _also_ been a long damn time since I paid much attention to the opposite sex in terms of _being_ women. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate what Agent Romanov can _do_ in the category of feminine wiles, but only because of what she gets accomplished with them.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself thinking about Finkle during my rare moments of down-time. About the way she'd been standing up to me. And standing _against_ me, particularly at the range. Despite what anyone thinks, I _am_ flesh and blood, just as prone to a surge of hormones now and again. Finkle had qualities that appealed to me, both in personality and physicality, and damned if my body hadn't picked up on that from the start.

Yeah I'm talking about sex. Hard to avoid the subject on a ship carrying a mixed crew in the prime of their reproductive years. I know perfectly well the majority of them are knocking boots with someone in their free time and I don't blame them. Job's stressful, and they're good people; they _deserve_ that human connection. Me, though, I'm a different story.

I'm not permitted _any_ sort of relationship, at least not in public. The general perception is that leaders stand alone, and I haven't exactly _discouraged_ that concept. Haven't had much of a reason to, up to now.

On the other hand there's a lot about me most of my people _don't_ know. Like the fact that Cap and I share more than just military rank and an interest in boxing. There are aspects about me that even Coulson and Hilldon't know, like my appreciation for the jazz of Mongo Santamaria. Or the fact that I like Kirschwasser, neat. I'm a complicated man under the leather and turtleneck sweaters.

I'm also human, despite the rumors. Human enough to know that if I was going to consider any sort of private interaction with Finkle, I'd need her to understand the necessity of discretion. No point in going _anywhere_ if that doesn't get established first.

Not to mention the fact that I don't _do_ personal conversations well. My main form of communication is the direct order, followed by the heavy-duty suggestion. I don't ask opinions, or share anecdotes and I _damned_ well don't use pick-up lines. My few ships-passing-in-the-night encounters over the years have been clandestine and extremely temporary by mutual agreement.

I'm a dangerous man; dangerous _to_ other people and dangerous _for_ other people.

But something about Doctor Josephine Finkle's sass on a stick appealed to me. I _like_ people who look beyond the eye patch and the attitude, particularly when they come with a lotta promising upholstery as well. Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm immune to the lure of a zaftig woman.

Unfortunately serious business picked up shortly after we left outpost Nord, putting everything else on the back burner. I had my hands full with reports about incursions, sightings, retaliatory strikes and eventually, a newly-discovered Hydra base in Tia Carumba South America.

That last is what ended up putting me in the infirmary by the way. Cap and I _knew_ we couldn't risk freedom fighters or terrorists or any other fanatics getting a hold of any of the Red Skull's technology, so that meant taking the lead in clearing out the place. We managed to do it with minor injuries on our side and a handful of involuntary detainees to question later. Personally I found it embarrassing to be among the wounded; ruined a good coat on top of everything.

Once the job was done I went in to get patched up and wonder of wonders Finkle was the one coming around the curtain and giving me the eye. Would have been a terrific opportunity to socialize if I wasn't half-naked and leaking blood. To the woman's credit she knew her job and got right to work cleaning it out. I did notice the little glances she kept taking at my torso.

Yeah, everything I _don't_ have on my head is on my chest. Not common knowledge. Finkle didn't seem put off by it, which I counted in my favor. She looked like she wanted to say something so I gave her one of my milder glares to get her going.

"You've got some muscle damage but I haven't found any bone, artery, or vein injury. I want you to keep this arm immobilized in a sling for a few days. Right now I have it packed and wrapped; I'm going to give you something for the pain."

"Not too much," I told her, and added, "I won't _need_ much. Trust me on this."

Finkle nodded, prepped the shot and while she administered it, she laid her hand in the middle of my _chest._

Exhibit A: the woman was copping a feel.

By rights I could have called Finkle on harassment right there, especially since her fingers were stroking some of the curls. However, I wasn't feeling particularly harassed. If pressed on the point I could make the case that I didn't mind a damned _bit_, especially since her palm was warm.

A minute later she realized what she was doing and squeaked. Funniest damned noise I'd heard in a long time; it took real work on my part not to grin. Finkle tried to pull her hand away but I caught it and held it for a moment.

Then I put it _back_ on my chest.

Finkle looked at her hand, and then up at me. I watched as the worry went out of her eyes and she started to smile. Didn't realize how tense she was until I saw her shoulders loosen up under her lab coat.

"Colonel, are you . . . flirting with me?"

"If you recall, I believe _you_ started it," I pointed out. I wasn't going to take the rap for her foray into my personal space.

"I'm a _doctor_!" Finkle spluttered, but she was still grinning, so I knew any outrage was purely for show.

I looked down; fingers playing around with the curls again, stroking me. Felt nice.

She moved a little closer and huffed. "Okay, I'm a doctor who happens to like a little fur, so sue me."

I would have said more but we both heard the orderly coming over. Finkle took her hand back and I got dismissed to my quarters while she went to assist with the rest of the injured.

All in all, not a bad damned day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Finkle**

Oooh damn. It had been hard enough to maintain professional poise around the colonel, especially when I realized he was injured, but seeing him without a shirt made me realize exactly how long it had been since I'd had sex.

Too long, apparently. I don't do casual hook-ups, so when Harold and I divorced three years ago it was the start of my current celibacy. To be honest, sex with Harold wasn't all that great, but even mediocre sex is still _sex_, and I really missed all the fringe benefits of foreplay and cuddling.

And Fury without a shirt was extremely easy on my eyes. He had a nice broad chest, well-muscled and carpeted in lovely curls that I was _dying_ to touch. I kept it together though, and took care of his bullet wound, making sure it was cleaned and sutured before anything else.

I'd gotten a lot of practice at repairing bullet wounds in the last few weeks.

Anyway when the time came to give him an injection, I absently reached out to steady myself and laid a hand on Fury's chest. I didn't actually _plan_ that; my fingers had a mind of their own apparently, and it was only by the time I was done loading him with a dose of Ultram that I realized what I'd done.

Of course I went 'eep!' and pulled back, the heat running through my face at the same time. The colonel snagged my hand—damn his reflexes are quick—and he pulled it back to his chest as if it belonged there.

No mistaking the intent, but of course I spluttered, asking him if he was flirting with me because I wasn't _quite_ sure. The colonel accused me of starting it, which actually, I very much _did _back at the range. Naturally I had to qualify matters by bringing up my medical degree but it was funny and sweet to see Fury looking amused. Too bad we were interrupted.

We both jumped right back into being professional of course, and Chief Agrino needed me to go look at a few more injuries, so I sent the colonel off to rest while I kept working. Nobody was dead and the fractured skull patient was stable after a few hours of surgery. Later, I had a chance to chat with Phil out in the hall, and he asked about Fury.

"The bullet did minor damage . . . if you can call_ any_ gunshot wound minor," I assured him.

"He's tough," Phil agreed with a little nod.

I nodded back, and hesitated. There were a thousand things I wanted to ask, but I didn't have any roundabout way of working them into a casual conversation, and in any case Phil's sharp enough that he'd pick up on my intentions in a heartbeat. If Fury is tough, Phil is sharp; eerily so sometimes.

So of course he picked up on the hesitation. "Something wrong?"

"Just . . . is there someone we ought to notify?" I asked, trying like hell not to blush.

Phil just looked at me. "The colonel doesn't have any family . . . at least not that I know of."

"Ohh." I tried to keep it casual. No big deal. Nothing of consequence. "Okay."

Before I could change the subject though, Phil gave one of those little half-smiles of his. The dangerous ones. "Any particular reason for asking?"

"What? Oh, no. Just sort of standard. Bullet wound and all," I tried to bluff.

Ever try to bluff against Special Agent Phillip J. Coulson? I don't recommend it. He crossed his arms and gave me his best bland look. The one that makes him seem like he's carved in granite and can outwait a mirror in a staring contest.

I caved after a few seconds. "I was just curious, that's all. I mean, he's . . . nice."

"Nice." Phil blinked, "the colonel?"

I wished a hole would open up in the floor and just deposit me somewhere else; maybe in some storage bay, or that fancy laboratory reserved for Doctor Banner. "Look, it's no big deal, Phil, all right? Let's just drop it, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed quietly, "it's just . . . I've been working for Colonel Fury for seven years now, and in all that time I don't think I've ever heard anyone describe him as . . . nice."

"Phil-!"

"Anyone . . . _ever_," he added, and finally grinned a little.

I had to get _out_ of this conversation so I cleared my throat a little and looked away. "Lots of people are nice, okay? Cynara's nice. Chief Agrino's nice. _You're_ nice."

"You keep using that word," Phil quoted at me. "I do not think it means what you think it means."

"Very funny, Inigo Montoya Coulson, but can we drop it now?" I muttered, feeling flushed.

Phil reached out and patted me on the shoulder. "Sure. We'll keep this just between us."

"This _what_?" I sputtered. "We're not in elementary school here!"

He just gave that half-smile again. "Guess that means I can forego singing about you and the colonel sitting in a tree?"

I punched his arm. HARD.

He didn't even flinch, the rat, and of course I totally broke up after that, laughing like an idiot. So much tension and all of it came out in my giggles. Phil let me lean against his shoulder as I finally pulled myself together, wiping my eyes and trying not to go off on another round when I looked at his smirk. "You are a totally _rotten_ tease, Coulson."

"Sisters," he murmured. "I have three; best survival training ever."

"It shows," I assured him. "So . . . should I bring him some chicken soup?" I had two quart jars of homemade from my mother; she re-stocks me every time I visit her.

"I heard about the brisket from Sandoval," Phil murmured, a little wistfully. "So yeah, soup would be good. I might have to check it for quality first."

"Will it buy your silence?"

"Depends on the soup."

**Fury**

The thing most people don't know about the aftermath of missions is that there is a hell of a _lot_ of paperwork afterwards. It's just sort of assumed that soldiers get back to whatever they were doing before the mission, that wrapping things up might involve a de-briefing and that's pretty much it.

I'm here to tell you _different_. Missions mean all sorts of paperwork, and while I don't have to write up the mundane stuff—weapon and ammunition checklists, minute-by-minute depositions, personnel records, medical records, official reports—I DO have to sign off on them. Just because everything's digitized and filed in the cloud doesn't get me off the hook for accountability.

My being wounded is no excuse, either. After I left the infirmary I went to my quarters, dropped my ass in the chair behind my desk and started delivering my John Hancock to the necessary forms. Wish I could say I had a system to speed the job up, but I don't, and the Ultram in my system wasn't helping either by putting a fuzzy edge to things.

Still, the base had been cleared and secured; we had some interesting technology for our engineers to pull apart, and a few zealots to interrogate. Nobody was dead, either, which I consider a major win. We'd be back in Tia Carumba before long, but right now this little foray was done.

Tired, though. I'm not immune to that and I figured I'd have myself a drink and turn in early, let the arm heal up. Would be fun to see Finkle's expression in the morning when she'd find it pretty much mended. Those were my plans, so when the knock came on my door I called for whoever it was to come in, figuring it was Hall with some report.

Wasn't, though. Looked as though my doctor was making a house call, and the smell drifting from the tray she was carrying made my damned stomach growl. Well, well, well—a little Jewish penicillin, personally _delivered_, no less. Had no idea I was even _hungry_. I watched her bring it over and set it down, all steaming.

"You made me chicken soup," I pointed out. This was a pretty damned big deal, even _I_ knew that. In terms of dating a Jewish girl, that was practically going steady. I looked up at Finkle and she gave a shrug, mostly to cover up the fact that she was nervous.

"It's my mom's. I can't eat two quarts by myself."

"You brought your mother's chickensoup _with _you aboard the helicarrier?"

Then she gave me this look. I can't even begin to describe it, but right from that moment on I_ knew_ I wanted to see it a lot. A sort of exasperated twist to her mouth and a feisty little glare in her eyes. A take-no-prisoners sorta look.

"Colonel Fury, lesser men have worshiped at my mother's FEET for this soup. I'll have you know that Miriam Finkle's chicken soup should be registered as a cure for hanta virus, athlete's foot, bi-polarism and _every_ strain of bird flu known to man, and _you_ are going to finish every _drop_, got it?"

By the time she finished I was grinning because seeing Finkle get wound up is fun. I _knew_ the soup would be good, oh _hell_ yes. If her mother taught her how to cook of course it was gonna be good; the floor show was just an added bonus.

"I don't doubt it's amazing, doctor—I'm just surprised nobody's confiscated it so far. In case you haven't noticed, the cuisine onboard here isn't exactly four star."

She gave a knowing nod and pulled up a chair to sit near me. "_Tell_ me about it. Anyway as your attending physician, I highly recommend this and don't try to tell me you're not hungry because I can hear your stomach from here, Nick."

"Oh we're on the _first_ name basis now, are we?" I already had a spoon in my hand.

"Considering you've shown me your gun and made me feel up your chest, I think _so_," came her sassy reply and that was sorta that.

Damn it was good. I tried to eat slowly and savor it, but it was hard not to just bring the bowl up to my mouth and guzzle it down. I'm not particularly a soup lover, but this was honest-to-God homemade. _Not_ out of a can, _not_ over-processed glop with too much salt and mush for noodles, no, this was the genuine article; _real_ chicken slivered up, carrots and peas that needed a little chewing, noodles solid and filling.

I can't even _tell_ you the last time I'd had real soup. Don't even want to try and think back that far. I went through it faster than I intended to, and Finkle didn't even try to hide her smug look when I was done. I wiped my mouth with the napkin and gave a little sigh.

"Thank you . . . Josie."

"You're welcome," she told me, and smiled.

She collected the dishes even though I told her she could leave them, and I walked her to the door. Before I opened it, I leaned in close; whispered to her.

"We are crossing a Rubicon here, Doctor Josie Finkle, so you better think long and hard about what comes next. I'm a workaholic, I'm at least three generations older than you and a schwartzer goy to boot."

"Yeah? Well I weigh at least thirty pounds more than you, Colonel Nick Fury, and I'm a pretty dedicated workaholic myself," Finkle whispered back. "If you think you can handle that, we _might_ be able to work something out."

She slipped past me, swaying those hips and I watched her all the way down the hall, giving myself permission to enjoy the mighty _fine _view.


	6. Chapter 6

**Finkle**

So. The ball was now in my court, and I had no idea how to deal with it. I mean let's face facts; Fury was _not_ the sort of guy you ask out on a date . . . at least not to the usual places. I just couldn't imagine him at a bar downtown. And please, in some fancy restaurant he'd be glaring at the other patrons and intimidating the hell out of the waiter, right?

He didn't _look_ like he was a big fan of ESPN, and trying to picture him at some art museum or the zoo only gave me headaches. I suppose I could have asked for more instruction with guns, but I was more interested in learning about _him_, you know?

Finally I asked my mother. Before you jump to conclusions, you have to know that my mother is pretty impressive. She grew up in Israel and served in the army there before coming to the US and marrying my dad. The two of them had consulting business for civil engineers, so I grew up learning a lot about rebar and concrete and stress tests and infrastructure. Hint: do _not_ ask my mother about the Pulaski Skyway unless you want a three-hour rant.

Anyway she's pretty sharp even now in retirement and I knew she'd have at least one good suggestion since she's been pushing me to start dating again. When I called her up she was pretty quick with a suggestion.

"Go take him to that little artsy movie place near the Snug Harbor Sailor's Home. They're showing a documentary on the Champawat Tiger."

"The Champawat Tiger?"

"Man-eater from the turn of the century; fascinating stuff. Men _love_ historic violence, you know that, bubbala. So, is he nice?"

"Ah, yeah," I admitted. "But he's, um . . ."

"Married?"

"No! No, it's just that he's black, mom."

"Oh! And?"

"Annnnd that's it." I didn't try to explain that the colonel was probably the most dangerous man in the five boroughs, or that I had no idea if we were even going to _have_ a relationship.

"Well all right then. As long as he makes you happy, sweetheart."

That remained to be seen, but I wasn't going to tell _her_ that.

I managed to text the invitation without dropping my phone—a major accomplishment, considering how nervous I was—and slipped the thing into my lab coat pocket while I checked up on Cynara via Skype. She was doing pretty well, eating right and walking a lot. All good in the course of a pregnancy.

Went through the rest of my day getting more and more depressed the longer my phone stayed silent. Hell, even a simple 'no' would at least have been polite, but I hadn't gotten _any_ response, positive or negative. By the time the helicarrier was hovering three miles off of Manhattan on stand-by I was seriously down in the dumps.

I was debating on curling up and downloading some Monty Python when I got a knock at my door and a young agent handed me a sealed envelope.

_Yes. We have forty minutes to make the first showing._

Panics-ville. I looked at the agent.

"I was told to escort you to the transport, ma'am."

"Shit, okay, I need a minute . . ." I yelped, and ran to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Five minutes. I can pull myself together in five minutes. All good doctors can, but this was really putting the pressure on. Quick chignon, mascara, fancy flats and my tartan wool wrap and clutch . . . I was back in three minutes. The agent blinked and didn't say anything but I could tell he was impressed.

In the transport I expected to find the colonel but he wasn't there, only the pilot, who took off the minute the door closed behind me. I strapped in and reached for my phone.

_What the HELL, colonel?_

Of _course_ I didn't get a response, and by the time the transport landed on the roof of the Snug Harbor Sailor's Home I was damned near fuming. It's one thing to be mysterious and hard to get, but it's another to be downright infuriating. I made my way through the building and out the door without anyone stopping me—I guess they're used to being a S.H.I.E.L.D. drop-off—and out to the Cinéma-tastique.

It was chilly outside, but_ I_ was plenty warm let me tell you. I marched up to the ticket window and glared at the skinny goth on the stool there. "Excuse me; have you seen a big scary man with an attitude and an eye-patch?"

She pointed over my shoulder.

And yes, there he was in the arc of the streetlight, decked out in his leather duster and fingerless gloves, imposing as hell. I took a moment to appreciate how nice he looked, and then I sauntered over, still on the boil. "O-kay you've got _some_ chutzpah! Do you know how-"

I didn't get to finish. Fury caught my wrist, pulled me close and spun us out of the light, slipping his arm around my shoulders and leaning over me, whispering low. "All electronic communications aboard the helicarrier are _monitored_, Doctor, so unless you want the entire _crew_ to know our business I suggest we find an alternative."

Then he kissed me.

Oy!

Big strong mouth on that man, and hot! Whatever else I can say about Colonel Nick Fury, I have to point out that The. Man. Can. Kiss. About all I could _do_ was give a little muffled squeal and right before I could kiss him back he pulled away, licked his lower lip and held out a pair of tickets.

Tickets?

Oh yeah, tickets.

The movie.

"Like the hair," he said as he steered me into the dark depths of the theater.

**Fury**

The last time I went on an actual _date_ was about twelve presidents back when the Olympics were in Australia and Larsen threw a perfect game in the fifth of the series that year. You could say I'm a little rusty on the protocol.

Then there was the matter of surveillance.

When Finkle's invitation first showed up, I had to ignore it and focus on business. I knew someone on-duty would read it and assume it was a mistake, especially when I didn't respond. Hated doing that, but I wasn't about to have the communications room and eventually the whole helicarrier in on _my_ private life.

The only _good_ thing was that because I _am_ the boss, I can issue orders and not have anybody ask me stupid questions, like 'Why are you going to Staten Island?' and 'Why are you sending a doctor to one of our landing spots?' I try not to abuse the privilege but it _is_ damned nice to be able to play the Alpha Dog card once in a while.

Anyway, I took the first transport down and gave the theater the once over, checking the security. Run-down but acceptable; a little like myself. Picked up the tickets and looked at my watch. Not nervous.

Have to admit that when she finally showed up though I relaxed a little. Had her hair up, which was _definitely_ nice. I knew Finkle would be pissed, but once I explained things I hoped she'd understand the need for discretion. Discretion that I promptly put in _jeopardy_ by laying one on her right there on the sidewalk.

I'm chalking_ that_ one up to unreasonable temptation and a window of opportunity. Man's gotta take chances when they present themselves.

No guts, no glory, right?

I didn't want to draw any _more_ attention to us, though, so I walked her into the place, doing my damnedest to keep cool. Found us seats up under the projector and asked her if she wanted any popcorn. She didn't.

Turns out the Tiger of Champawat was a four-footed serial killer in a fur coat, racking up over four hundred victims before being hunted down by a big game hunter. Not quite a documentary, but worth watching, particularly with Finkle next to me. Seats were too damned high to try putting an arm around her shoulders, but I _thought_ about it.

Thought too, about what I needed to say, which was a bitch because it meant some serious negotiation in the immediate future. I'm not _good _at anything that doesn't involve me getting my_ own_ way, and delectable as Finkle is, she's got enough backbone to make it tough on me.

Short version, I wanted her, but I didn't know if we could have anything more serious than fling.

Mine isn't exactly a safe profession, and recent calamitous events haven't helped matters a whole lot. I've got a rolodex of enemies, and most of my work is _in_ the line of fire. I'm bad-tempered, unsociable, and to be honest, downright _old_. And those are my _good_ points.

And on top of that, well . . . I can't say I actually know _how_ to have a relationship. Motherfucking shocker _there_, I know, but it's the truth. I maybe a ruthless son of a bitch, but I'm an honest one too, and Finkle deserved to know what was on my mind.

When the movie ended we headed out to the lobby, not saying much. I steered her past the posters for the Kate Sullivan retrospective and out to the sidewalk. Had my sights on a neon sign about two blocks down.

"Latch on," I told her and offered my arm. She took it and we set off.

"Where are we going?"

"Waffle World," I told her.

A waitress with rhinestone cat's eye glasses led us to a nice booth in the back and gave us our laminated menus. Knew what I was gonna get so I looked at Finkle. She sighed.

"Silver dollar stack, with toast."

"Lumberjack special with bacon and hash browns."

The waitress left, and the two of us just stared at each other.

This was not good. I opened my mouth to say something when Finkle started to laugh.

"Sorry, sorry," she spluttered. "I am nervous as _hell_, and your big bad wolf look isn't helping, Nick. You look like you want to order an airstrike on the building."

"That depends on if they mess up the orders."

She smiled, and it was a hell of a lot easier after that. I leaned back, kept my eye on her. "Jo-seph-_ine_ Finkle. You know I'm exactly the wrong man for you, right?"

"Yep," she agreed, but she was still smiling. "You are. You're ruthless, dedicated to your job and have all the interpersonal skills of a Desert Eagle, and yet I still want to kiss you again, and find out your middle name."

"I'm old, Josie. Old enough to be your damned grandfather."

"Maybe," she murmured. "But you can still get it up."

I blushed. That has not fucking _happened_ in twenty years.

"Not the point," I muttered. "I don't know if I can give you what you want. What you _deserve_."

That's when I saw that gleam again, that twist to her mouth. I'd be lying if I didn't admit some serious lust right then.

"What I _deserve_? You're not allowed to go all _noble_ on me after only one kiss, buster. Look, we're both grown-ups here. I'm not asking for hearts and flowers, or some sort of long-term commitment, Nick. I'm only here through Cynara's pregnancy and after that, who knows? I know you're attracted to me, and I am to you too. Why can't we just go with _that_ for now?"

There it was, everything I'd planned to say to _her_, in a nutshell.

Sensible. Practical. A workable solution.

"Just . . . go with the attraction," I replied, to make sure I had it right.

She nodded. "Why not? That's six months you know. Nothing formal, nothing to worry about, nu? Our business, nobody else's."

It took me a long time to finally nod.


	7. Chapter 7

**Finkle**

All my life I've been called a pragmatic person. I make decisions based on what's effective; I tend to deal with people on a real-life, real-world basis. Medicine was a natural field for me, and most of my friends agree that I'm a pretty level-headed woman.

So this fascination with Fury was out of the blue, you know?

When I realized I was, yes, interested in the man I decided that the most reasonable way to deal with it would be to compartmentalize it. Draw up some rules and keep the whole thing entrez-nous, as the French would say. Whatever Fury and I might end up doing or being, it would be separate from our professional lives.

I was pretty sure he'd see the logic of that. I knew his job was incredibly dangerous and time-consuming as it was, so it just made sense that the two of should agree to keep things as simple as possible.

Still, my heart was in my mouth because he took so long to agree, and of course my mind was in overdrive about reasons for his reluctance. Despite the confident exterior I _do_ have my fair share of insecurity. Right when I thought he was going to give me his 'I don't think this is going to work' spiel, Fury nodded and pointed a finger at me.

"All right. Doesn't mean we're gonna be hopping into bed right away though. I'm not that _easy_, Josephine Finkle."

It took a lot not to laugh. "I _can_ be patient. "

He looked as if he didn't believe me, but I didn't mind; the pressure was off for the moment, and right then our food arrived.

I'd heard about Waffle World, but this was the first time I'd been in one, and ohhhh it was good. My mini-pancakes were hot, fluffy and light; just the way I like 'em. Fury's plate was loaded with sausage, bacon, pancakes and hash browns. Seriously, it was enough food for three people.

We ate.

We talked between bites, mostly about the movie, with both of us sympathetic to the tiger's dilemma. I found out he'd actually _been_ stalked by a tiger once, and I told him about back when I was an intern and a patient came in with a mauled ass. The idiot had mooned a jaguar against a chain link fence at the local zoo and it hadn't been appreciated.

So it was good, for a first date. He wouldn't let me pay, so I got even by leaving the tip, and when we stepped outside the fog blanketed everything.

"So how _are_ we going to communicate?" I asked Fury when we walked back towards the Snug Harbor Sailor's Home.

"Cell phone's still the most efficient means," the colonel replied. "Here." He handed me something that looked like a gray rubber band. "Put that around yours; it will put your calls and texts into cipher."

"_All_ of them?" I imagined the mass confusion of my mother and friends at receiving strings of weird code from me.

"I have the _other_ band," Fury snorted. "It'll work only on messages between our two phones."

We'd reached the building; Fury slipped a card from his pocket and swiped it through the reader hidden behind the historical society plaque on the wall. Nobody was inside, although all the lights were on. I followed Fury into the elevator, thinking how I'd come to accept the cloak and dagger side of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the last two months or so. I mean who _knew_ that the Staten Island cultural center doubled as a transport site?

I was so caught up in these thoughts that it didn't dawn on me until our elevator began to move that this was going to be the end of our date. Once we reached the roof Fury was going to put me in a transport to send me back to the helicarrier, and I knew he wouldn't be coming _with_ me. So right before the doors opened, I hit the 'hold' button and looked up at him.

"And this is where we say goodnight?"

He cocked his head and right then I knew things were going to be good between us, because Fury crowded me up against the wall and cupped my face in his hands. Big hands, warm.

"This is where we say goodnight," he agreed, right before I kissed him.

And it _was_ goooood; slow and hot, tinged with hints of maple syrup. He left me breathless and flushed, achy for him in all his big leather-coated glory. When he pulled away I know I whimpered, but then he moved towards my throat.

"Like the hair up," he growled at me. "Lets me do _this_—"

Dammn, I was melting then. Everyone has a particularly dangerous erogenous zone and mine was my neck. Fury's goatee scraping against it as he nibbled had me panting, wriggling, damned near clawing his coat off.

Unfortunately right then the elevator gave a warning ding and I cursed. Fury chuckled against my throat and shifted away, letting his thumb stroke my cheek before straightening up. The doors slowly rolled open and the rush of cold night air was a bit of a shock to the system.

I took a few deep breaths, looking out to where the transport sat waiting, feeling the heat rising off my face, and radiating sullenly under my stomach. My only consolation was that Fury looked pretty frustrated too, although he had more experience with scowling.

We walked over to the transport and he watched me climb in, giving me a meaningful look before swinging the door shut and stepping back. I watched Fury standing there, the edges of his duster ruffling from the breeze the rotorblades made. The transport rose up and away into the foggy night, and I rubbed my neck, still feeling the sweet tickle there, and hoping it wouldn't be _too_ long until we did more than kiss goodnight.

On impulse I pulled out my phone and tapped a message in.

_How do you justify using SHIELD resources for personal business?_

I didn't wait long; the answer came back within a minute.

_Part of my social security benefits. Get some sleep, Josephine._

**Fury**

I spent the next hour walking around Staten Island, working off some steam and pretending it helped. There's a certain irony about personal impulses, particularly at my age. I didn't get to where I am by being stupid, but it's difficult to ignore basic biology sometimes. We men can have our most complicated, grandiose plans completely overruled by our physical responses. Stark's a prime example of that; Banner too, to a different degree.

In any case, I was damned glad I had enough common sense to put Finkle back on the helicarrier because it was clear to me that the woman was temptation personified. And walking around I thought about how much of a liability that could be, both to S.H.I.E.L.D. and to my own damned self.

I was already bypassing protocol by giving her an enigma band, but they weren't official equipment yet so I could justify it as a practical field test if pushed on the matter. Amused me to see her use it before the night was even up, but I expected it. Seemed that Finkle was the sort to try and get the last word in. Lotta backbone in that woman.

Generally a lot of everything, and that was more than _fine _by me.

My time through the next week ended up exceedingly full thanks to the aftermath of the Tia Carumba raid, and even though Hill was running the interrogations and Coulson had a good handle on processing the collected technology, I still had_ my_ share of work to do. Members of the council were making their usual half-assed threats and demands, and I was working on contingency plans for the upcoming issues of Sigyn-Laufeyson's pregnancy as well.

Bad enough to have a half-human, half-alien being born into a thorny diplomatic situation, but throwing in a loose cannon like Loki doesn't exactly sweeten the pot. Going on information from Thor, it was clear that his adopted brother wasn't any more popular out in space than he was here, and the idea that someone or some_thing_ might take a few potshots at us on the off-chance of hitting _him_ loomed large in my thoughts.

And I worried that something might go wrong with the birth. That sort of tragedy could set off a lot of unpleasant events. From her background check I knew Finkle was a damned good doctor but she was going to need all the information she could get. That meant having her talking to Thor, and Loki and maybe even making a trip to Asgard.

That was _not_ something I wanted to happen for a whole lot of reasons ranging from the fact she was a civilian to the idea that I'd already staked a personal _claim_ on this particular Valkyrie. Not that I could ever say that to Finkle's face; she'd probably lecture me about sexist language, but we are _all_ products of our generation and mine happens to be a bit more direct on the subject.

Then on Friday afternoon I received a text.

_I need to check out your arm. The rest of you is optional._

Note made me almost grin, especially since my damaged bicep was ninety percent healed at this point.

_No point in arguing, is there?_

_None._

_Fine. HQ in Manhattan, six o'clock. PQ level._

_Oh now you're expecting a house call? _

_Only if the doctor wants dinner too. Multi-tasking; S.H.I.E.L.D. has refined it to an art, Josephine._

_You're lucky you're cute, Nick. What time?_

_Six. I should be done with the last security crisis by then._

_What—you know, never mind, I don't want to know. Six it is. Bring your arm._

_I'll make sure to *do* that._

I was listening for the elevator so when it arrived I hit the button and the doors slid open. Finkle looked at me first, hesitating, but I fixed that by holding out a wineglass. She took it and then started scoping things out behind me, and laughed.

"Oh my God. It's James Bond's bachelor pad!"

"Am I _hearing_ you disrespecting my décor?" I asked, but I had to grin because yeah, the place is pretty modern. I've got a view of the city—nothing to rival Stark, but nice—and it's all leather, chrome and glass. Got into Bauhaus myself early on, and I remember Stark senior's love for Lautner's work out on the west coast.

I remember when it was new, and now that it's retro it's coming full circle again.

"PQ—personal quarters, okay. So you _live_ . . . at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters?" Finkle was wandering in, sipping and looking around. "God, how much more superspy can you get?"

"It's central and the rent is cheap."

She rolled her eyes at me and snorted. "And I suppose this is where you bring all your S.H.I.E.L.D. bunnies, plying them with excellent wine and luring them to that conversation pit?"

That would have hurt if I hadn't heard that little note of uncertainty in her voice. She might talk tough but Finkle was still . . . young. I stepped down into the living room and dropped myself on the sofa, sighing.

"If you want to go out, we _can_," I told her. "Got about six good places for dinner within walking distance."

She came over and sat down next to me, put her glass on the coffee table. "Sorry," she murmured. "I haven't seen you in _days_, and now I find out you've got a pretty incredible apartment, and it's Friday night, which means we can sleep in tomorrow and oh God, I can't believe I just SAID that!"

I turned to look at her, keeping my expression as neutral as I could. "Doctor Josephine Finkle-are you _seducing_ me?"

Took about three minutes for her to stop giggling, and I had my arm around her by then, both of us slumped against the back of the sofa. She snuggled up against me and it was good. Damned good.

"Yes," Finkle admitted. "I _am_, Colonel. Problem?"

"Hope you brought a toothbrush," I told her. "And some ibuprofen."

"Ibuprofen?" I noticed she blushed at the toothbrush, and if I was a betting man I would have laid odds the woman _had_ one in her purse.

"Yeah, you'll need it in the morning for your _limp_, Jo-seph-ine."

She reached up and touched my jaw, making me look at her bright eyes.

"Ha! We'll _see_ who needs medical care by morning, mentshy-mine."


	8. Chapter 8

**Finkle**

So because I am a professional, I _did_ inspect Fury's arm first, and what I found was kind of astonishing—no wound, no scab, no scar. For a minute I thought I had the wrong arm, but no, neither had any injury to it. There he sat in all his furry-chested glory, grinning at me as I kept running my fingers over his muscles.

"Care to explain?" I finally asked.

"Highly classified, but nothing dangerous and nothing you need to _worry _about," Fury told me. "Let's just say I'm healthy."

"Apparently," I muttered. S.H.I.E.L.D. was turning out to have a_ lot _of quote classified unquote stuff and I wasn't sure I could deal with knowing any more of it. "I still think it's disconcerting."

"Gonna be all right with it?" He actually looked concerned, so I scooted closer and gave into my desire to run _both_ hands over that big curly chest of his.

Niiiiiice.

He gave a little rumbly purr, like a jaguar.

I laughed. "I'll be fine. I understand I don't get to know _all_ the secrets, but I'm glad you're healthy."

So yeah, we didn't do a lot of talking after that. At least, not a lot of conversation, but it's safe to say both of us were communicating _very_ well. I learned a lot of things about Nick Fury pretty quickly, all of them breathtaking.

First of all, he likes to kiss and he's damned good at it. Frankly my gears were already shifting upwards and I was ready to head to his bedroom, but the colonel pulled me on his lap and took his sweet time making me melt like a stick of butter in a microwave. I have never been so _deliberately_ kissed, ever. Not even on my wedding night, oy!

Patience is something I've cultivated most of my life, but Fury was pushing those limits along with my buttons, so I was stuck between gasping and growling, calling him a few choice names in Yiddish while he chuckled against my neck, and then against my collarbones, and lower. I had been worried about him seeing my body—that first time is always difficult, especially for a woman my size. I wasn't ashamed of myself, but had taken a long time for _me_ to accept who I was, let alone anyone else.

But Nick Fury drew in a deep breath, let out a slow '_daaaaaaaammn_,' and then proceeded to become Very Good Friends with my breasts. And let me tell you, they appreciated it. A lot. So much in fact that I ended up climaxing right there in the conversation pit.

Of course I was completely mortified by that, but in my defense it was pretty clear that the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. knew his way around a set of knockers. When I could catch my breath I apologized, but he gave me that soft smile of his—the really _rare_ one—and pulled me up to him, chest to chest. "Shhhhh. I think we need to move this out of my _living_ room, Josie."

No argument from me. Fury kept his arms around me and we made it down a little hall and through a doorway to his bedroom. Not quite as austere as the living room but the bed was one of those low platform types of polished wood with a huge mattress and a lot of pillows.

Huh. I had no idea that Fury was a secret hedonist, but I wasn't in any place to complain and I had other matters on my mind anyway, so turned my attention to divesting the man of his clothing.

Boxers. I expected commando to be honest, but the sight of his good old American boxers made me grin until I saw how distended they were. _Then_ I got a little nervous because there seemed to be a lot of Fury in them. More than I'd seen before, and in my line of work I've seen my share of schlongs. Once I had him out of those shorts, it was easy to confirm that yes indeed, Colonel Nick Fury was in possession of some dangerous personal weaponry, no longer concealed.

This made me think that I might actually _need_ that ibuprofen later, but for now I simply slid next to him under the sheets and gave myself up to more kissing, rubbing, and touching, which wasn't exactly difficult.

We didn't need to discuss birth control since Fury had already seen the transdermal patch behind my shoulder earlier, and by now most of our verbal exchanges consisted of moans, groans, and punctuated gasps because yes, I am distressingly loud during sex. That didn't seem to faze Fury a _bit_, thank God; he was apparently on a 'search and seduce' mission over my entire body, proving once again that the man certainly knew how to multi-task.

Finally though, we managed to wrap ourselves close to that lovely tangle that makes it all worthwhile, and I tried not to look anxious, but Fury caught my expression and stopped.

"Second thoughts? Talk to me, Jo-seph-ine," he whispered.

"No second thoughts, it's just . . . you're big. Bigger than I've had before," I blurted. "I'm a little chicken."

"We," he kissed me again, moving towards that one area of my neck that always makes me whimper, "have all _night_. I can go slow, bubelah."

Damn it. I don't know what thrilled me more, the assurance or the endearment, but things were a lot simpler after that. I did a little guiding, he did a little pushing and then it was ohmyGODDDDYESMOREOF*THAT!* time. Apparently my slick and eager body decided that it was more than ready to accommodate as much of the Colonel's howitzer as it possibly could. That's not to say that it didn't hurt a little, but the spine-melting orgasm that seared through me shortly afterwards sure as _hell_ made up for that.

I managed to cling to Nick through _his_ climax, which was impressive too, and afterwards we sort of lay there in a damp hot twist of limbs, both of us blissed out. He was gentleman enough to slide his ass over the wet spot and pull me close, tucking me against his side and purring.

I swear he does that; purr I mean. It's the most fabulous sound in the world, especially when you've got your cheek on his fuzzy chest.

"That. Was. Incredible," I confessed in a sleepy whisper. "Totally incredible."

"That," Fury murmured back, "Was just round _one_. We can do better."

I know I was grinning as I fell asleep.

**Fury**

It would be safe to say my weekend was looking pretty good, particularly since I had Doctor Josephine Finkle in my bed. Despite my earlier admonition to her, it was clear we were both more than ready to step things up, umm-_hmm_.

The woman was incendiary. Flat-out _incendiary_ from the first kiss, and let me tell you I did my damnedest to re-light her fuse throughout the night, which meant by about nine the next morning both of us were exhausted and starving. Not that I had too much to bitch about other than a damp bed and some claw marks around my ribs.

Still, it was time to refuel, so I hauled myself up and managed some poached eggs for us, along with coffee. I had no idea how she took her coffee but figured I'd find out soon enough. I did _not_ put anything on a tray because that shit _only_ happens in the movies, but I did take the plates back to bed.

Watched her wake up, all tousled and yawning was damned nice, especially when the sheet slipped down and gave me an inspiring view of her chest. Despite the fact we'd already had four rounds of lovemaking, I found myself _immediately_ interested in a return engagement. Apparently the sight of me was too much for Finkle and she laughed.

"Nice kielbasa, darling," she told me. "The eggs look good too."

"_Pull_ that sheet up unless you want breakfast to go Jackson Pollock all over this bed, woman," I told her as I handed over one of the plates.

Finkle took it and looked surprised. "You cooked?"

I had to give her the glare for that one; she laughed again.

"Sorry, sorry, and thank you. It looks wonderful—I'm starving!"

I handed her the coffee as well and slipped back into bed, making it a point to start in on my own food before I asked what she had planned for the day.

"Well I've got a lunch date with my practice partner that I've already postponed twice so I feel obligated to keep it," Finkle told me. "Have to reassure her I'm coming back, and she needs my signature on a few things. For the afternoon I promised mom I'd sit in on one of her practice sessions because I'm the unofficial team doctor, and after that, nothing in particular."

"Practice?"

"Roller Derby. Mom's team is the Hot Flashes."

I remembered her mentioning roller derby before and nodded. "I've got enough to keep me busy until three or so; where's the rink?"

That startled her. "The rink? You want to watch the practice?"

I shrugged. "If that's where I'm picking you up." Had to make it clear that if we were doing the weekend together then that meant at least through Sunday.

"Umm it's the Roll-a-Rama in South Amboy," Finkle murmured around a mouthful of toast. "But you don't have to go out of your way, Nick."

"Worried I'll stand out?" I've never been the sort to blend in; usually I don't give a damn but this was different, being personal and all.

"Worried my mom will start asking a lot of nosy questions and drive you away, more like. Seriously, she's got interrogation skills that even _Coulson_ doesn't have. She'll embarrass us both!" Josie wailed.

That's when I caught her chin and made her look into my good eye. "So what you're saying that _you_ don't think I can handle a conversation with a woman of _my_ generation, is that it?"

"What I'm saying is you don't know who you're_ dealing_ with, Nick. She'll _nice_ you to death, and right when you think it's all small talk and strudel, wham!"

I waited. Finkle sighed and continued, giving her voice a slight accent. "So what happened to your eye? Were you married before? Do you have intentions towards my daughter? How much do you make, anyway? You know interracial children have a hard time, especially when they're raised Jewish."

Had to admit it was enough to give me pause but I wasn't going to show Finkle any of that. "I see your point, but the amazing thing about questions is that they don't _have_ to be answered."

"Ten bucks says my mom will have you talking inside of half an hour," Finkle predicted glumly. "There's a _reason_ a Jewish mother is a stereotype, sweetie."

"Ten bucks," I agreed, and set my plate aside before pulling her down into my arms again. "And since _neither_ of us have anything on the agenda until noon . . ."

"I knew there was an ulterior motive behind breakfast," she murmured, snickering. "It's a good thing you're damned near irresistible, Colonel Fury."

I defy _any_ man not to gloat at a compliment like that. Hell, woman could have asked me for the keys to the helicarrier and I'd probably have handed them over now. So we started getting busy again, kissing, and suddenly she caught my face in her hands and asked me the question.

THE question. The one they all do, eventually.

"So . . . how did you lose it?"

"SOG mission into Vietnam back in sixty-two," I told her, turning to kiss her fingers. "Da Nang. Bullet hit the binoculars I was using. Would have gone through my brains if the casing hadn't slowed it."

To her credit she didn't flinch, which was gratifying. ""I'm sorry."

"I'm still breathing and walking around. Lot of good men aren't."

"I get that, yeah. I'm glad _you_ are," Finkle told me, and that was the end of the discussion.

Gentle this time, and slow. Didn't need to rush anything, savored all that soft, sweet skin of hers, and put her on top of me, like a blanket. I loved the way she tried to stay quiet and couldn't, the way she moaned and clung to me.

And that _ass_—big, firm, ripe as a damned peach. It's not every man who gets a shot at something that fine and I was going to make sure Josie Finkle knew I appreciated it, even if it meant putting up with an interrogation by Miriam Bergman Finkle.

Or as Coulson's background check had called her, Captain Miriam 'The Desert Wolf' Berman, retired sniper for the Israeli Defense Forces.


	9. Chapter 9

**Finkle**

Frankly the idea of Nick Fury meeting my mom was slightly terrifying. This was going waaay too fast, and knowing my mother, was liable to speed up. Mom, see, wants me to be settled and happy. She has no concept of people staying single, and I guess it's a generational thing. I know she had a hard childhood herself back in Israel and she doesn't like to talk about her time in the military or her life before she met my dad.

And yes, they were a love match. They met in a dentist's waiting room, doing that smile and drool thing through three coinciding appointments before my mom asked dad out. They got engaged a few months later, all hearts and flowers tra-la-la. To be fair they were a good match, and I can't fault mom for wanting the same for me, but not everyone is as terrific as my dad was.

Certainly not my ex, Harold B. Heine. Yes, yes, you can go ahead and laugh—I was Mrs. Harry Heine for two excruciating years of my life. Harold is an actuary, and lives up to the stereotype: dependable, but dull. He wasn't interested in anything except baseball and collecting the cards associated with it. I'd married him out of a desire to escape my parent's house and start my own life. I'd divorced him because if I hadn't, I would have killed him in the next year.

He wasn't a bad man—didn't call me names, or beat me or cheat on me—but he was such an emotionally closed circuit that I felt as if I was slowly smothering in our relationship. As it is, I can close my eyes and still see _all _those damned shoeboxes of cards, thousands of them . . . oy!

Anyway, Fury potentially meeting my mother had me in a tizzy, and I was tempted to call her and cancel on the session. I could lie and say things were running long with Hildy—mom would believe me—but I'm just not keen on deceiving anyone. Goes against my nature. So I figured I could keep whatever contact brief and hope for the best.

Hildy of course wanted to know all about my life as a secret agent obstetrician since she'd been there when Phil and Thor had shown up and recruited me. S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her the very brief briefing and compensated her for having to manage the practice alone, but she was curious and I couldn't blame her, especially after Thor marched in, making all the preggos out in the waiting room either swoon or clutch their bellies warily.

I told her I was monitoring an exclusive pregnancy and gave her what details I could. She picked at her salad and offered a few test suggestions I hadn't thought of, then wanted to know if Thor was the papa. I told her I hadn't yet _met_ the papa and then she wanted to know if Thor was in the market for a baby mama. I told her she was welcome to try, but that he was out of town a lot and had some daddy issues, as well as a potential sweetheart out in the Southwest.

She told me to pass her phone number to him anyway and I told her I'd try. After that we just giggled and caught up on all the important things.

Consequently when I finally made it to the Roll-a-Rama I was in a better mood than I thought I would be. Inside I saw most of mom's team warming up, doing lazy turns around the rink and calling each other vile names—the usual. Your education hasn't been complete if you haven't heard post-menopause bubbes talking smack in Yiddish.

I made my way down to the rink, looking around to see if a certain tall, dark, and handsome spectator was around but didn't see anybody out of place. Mom was on one of the benches, pulling on her elbow pads and when she spotted me she grinned, offering up her cheek for a kiss. "Josie sweetheart! Come sit down, sit down!"

I kissed her and started fishing in my bag for the sports cream I knew she was going to need. She _actually_ let a couple of seconds go by before asking, "So? How was the date?"

"Good." I made it a point to start rubbing the cream into her knuckles, not looking at her. "I'll be seeing him again, I think."

"Oh good, good," Mom replied in a light little voice that made warning bells go off in the back of my mind. I looked up and saw her huge grin, which was frankly, unnerving.

"What?" My suspicion levels were on red alert now.

"So, is he about six foot two, with a goatee and one eye, maybe?" Mom chirruped, flexing her fingers. "Very imposing?"

I glared at her. "Where is he?"

"Standing right behind you."

I looked up; Fury's fuzzy chin was over my head so I got up. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. His polite and neutral look. I glared at him, and gave a sigh before announcing, "Mom, this is Colonel Nick Fury; Colonel this is my mother Miriam Finkle."

"How nice to meet you; Josie's told me nothing about you," My mother murmured wryly.

"On the other hand, _I _know that _you_ make the best chicken soup on the East Coast," Fury returned smoothly. "Quite a skill in your collection, Mrs. Finkle."

My mother blushed, and this was so bizarre that I was tempted to take her pulse.

"Oh it's nothing, nothing—I'm glad you liked it," Mom told him and shot one of her meaningful looks at me; the one that said _You shared __my__ soup with him; this is pretty serious, Josephine._

Just then one of mom's team rolled up—Ettie Farber, better known as Schtick-It out on the rink. They all have names like that and my mother, who usually plays blocker position, is known as Bad-Bushka. They've got a Yid Vicious and Bubbe Von Doom and Oy-Rage just to name a few.

I'm not telling anyone _my_ rink name, especially not Fury. Anyway, Mom got up and held out her sport-cream scented hand to Fury. "Good to meet you, Colonel. Staying to watch, maybe?"

"Yes," he replied, and said nothing more until after my mom was in the rink, warming up. I did my best not to look at him even though I knew every yenta on Mom's team was eyeballing us right now.

"Pissed-off is a very good _look_ on you," Fury muttered in a low voice. "Just so you know."

"Get used to it. Why are you _here_? I could have met up with you in any one of a hundred different places, Nick. You're putting yourself—us—in jeopardy."

He was quiet for a long time, and I wondered if he was having second thoughts. God knows _I_ was at the moment, since my assumption had been that we were a short-term deal without any of the baggage of social conventions. That we were a limited lease, not a rent-to-own.

"I finished early; figured I'd see how the other half lives," Fury sighed. "Figured if I played my cards right I might get more soup out of it."

**Fury**

When a soldier fucks up, retribution is swift and pre-determined; there's a court-martial and then sentencing. When a _man_ fucks up, particularly in matters relating to women, there's still retribution, but the form is unpredictable, and the degree uncertain. Maybe that's why soldiers have so damned much trouble with their personal lives.

They only know one set of rules, and those they _do_ know aren't the ones women lay down.

Trying to get a read on Finkle was nearly impossible. I couldn't tell if she was genuinely pissed, just embarrassed, or putting on a show for the rolling gang of blue-haired grannies whizzing past us around the rink. I figured I'd better play it by ear until I got my bearings.

In the meantime it was nice to glance at her and know what she looked like naked. No apologies for _that_ basic response.

"We have two choices here," Finkle told me in a whisper. "We can leave in the next few minutes and everyone will think we're headed for hot and heavy schtupping, OR we can stay for the whole thing and make nice, opening ourselves for all sorts of embarrassing questions that will potentially ruin whatever we have going between us, Colonel."

"And you want _my_ input on this?" I asked, stalling for time.

"Given that you've put us IN this position, yes."

"Me, I'd vote for the schtupping, but I'm selfish that way."

That got a smile. Finally.

"Good. That was my choice too, even though I'll have to face the music eventually." She turned and faced me. "Thanks for telling my mom her soup is good. That's the best thing you could have said."

Right then a pair of grannies collided and went down in a pile of swearing that would have taken paint off the helicarrier. Finkle headed over to check someone's elbow and I noticed Mama Finkle gliding over in the meantime.

She leaned against the rail, looking over at me, and this time it wasn't a _mother_ looking at me. Skin on the back of my neck prickled.

"Cooking is an _art_, not a skill, Colonel. Something I'm sure you know. Shooting is a _skill_. Something I think you know _very_ well," she told me in an undertone.

"I do."

"Good." Then she laid her hand on my sleeve.

Must be a Finkle woman thing.

"My Josie's heart is not a trinket, Colonel. Please don't treat it like one, ever."

I nodded. Mama Finkle relaxed a little, but not enough to smile. Instead, she flexed the fingers of her right hand. To anybody else that would have been an innocent gesture. To me, it was a direct warning.

"Shalom, Colonel Nick Fury; I'm glad we won't have to speak of this little matter again, nu?"

She pushed off of the rail and glided off, leaving me well-aware of the message. Any level-headed cautious man would have taken the hint.

And I _am_ a level-headed cautious man, but I've been threatened before; so many times in my life I've lost count. On top of that, I'd gone into this with Finkle on _her_ initiative—something I didn't think Mama Finkle realized.

Josie came back a few minutes later, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. "Okay, I think we can go now without too much scandal. You _know_ you were crazy to come down here, right?"

"I _have_ been known to do crazy things now and then," I told her.

-oo00oo-

I'd planned to take Finkle to Gambella's for dinner-they do a damned good veal parmesan—but when we stopped at her place and the door closed behind us, let's just say there was a change of plans.

This time I let her do what she wanted. Normally that's not my thing, but I was learning that Josephine Finkle is a force of nature, terrifying and glorious in her own bossy way. I don't often let someone else take charge, but since it was her house, and it involved both of us losing clothing I was willing to go along with it.

I did _not_ beg for mercy, but it was a close thing for a while there. Afterwards I let her curl up against me and asked if she was all right.

"I'm better," she told me quietly. "A _lot_ better. I love my mother, but having the two of you in the same room is like trying to take a statistics exam while performing surgery. One slip either way could be disastrous."

"That wasn't my intent," I clarified.

She rolled and rested her chin on my chest, looking at me suspiciously. I looked back at her, although my focus was more on the curve of her hip, and that sweet little padding along her ribcage.

I sighed. "Josie, do you know _why_ your mother suggested we go see a movie about a big game hunter?"

"I dunno-She likes art house films, I guess. So what _was_ your intent?"

The woman was clueless about her mother's past. Wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Curiosity. Maybe some envy," I admitted, and pulled her closer. "Every now and then I feel the need to see something _beyond_ the flight decks and offices and firing ranges, Jo-seph-ine. Seeing _you_ does me good."

Must have made some sense to her because she settled down against me and fell asleep while I stroked her spine and watched the shadows get longer against the bedroom wall.


	10. Chapter 10

**Finkle**

He was driving me a little nuts, but in a good way. Nick and I ended up spending the rest of the weekend back at his place, getting used to each other's little idiosyncrasies and habits. Luckily we were compatible on things like coffee, (one sugar, LOTS of cream) and television viewing habits. (History Channel, SyFy network) Nick Fury was not a born snuggler but he was getting into the habit of wrapping an arm around me if we were on the sofa, and I appreciated it.

We didn't talk much, just spent time hanging out together. I had my laptop and caught up on some email and data entry for my records while Nick occasionally disappeared downstairs to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ and came back up the final time with a bag of Italian subs from the deli down the street. I explored his place, getting to know the layout and the décor, amused at how very_ Fury_ it all was.

African art from Benin, Egyptian cotton sheets and pillowcases in rich cream tones to complement the polished teak furniture in the bedroom—I tell you, the colonel had _invested_ in his personal goods and it showed. I might have been intimidated by this except I saw other things too, like how empty his fridge was, and how musty most of the civilian clothes hanging in the back of his closet were.

It all said 'solitary' to me, and I wanted to be gentle with him.

I admit I was also keeping an eye out for traces of other women, but there was nothing blatant—a few bobby pins in a bathroom drawer was about all I found without being a full-on snoop. All in all, Nick Fury was definitely a man on his own.

But it was good. And in bed, I simply couldn't get enough of him. Out in the real world he might be Colonel Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D, but in my arms and between my hips he was just Nick, or Nick darling, or sweetheart.

Second night together—Saturday—I made him take off his eye patch. I could tell he didn't want to, but I was quietly persistent, reminded him I _was_ a doctor. Fury gave a sigh and slipped it off, looking wary. The scars were long and the lid sagged over the milky surface of his blind eye, but I didn't flinch. I ran my fingers over the rim of the socket and let my palm cup his cheekbone.

That led to a kiss . . . a really good one, sensual and romantic all rolled up together. I guess I was the first person to see Nick's uncovered face in a long time. It meant a lot to him; I know I appreciated his trust.

By Sunday afternoon though, it was time to go. I wasn't going to make a big deal out of it, especially since both of us had things to do before work on Monday. I packed up my overnight bag and would have slipped out the door but he pulled me into his arms and held me close. "No. no damned walk of shame out of here, Josie. I'm taking you home."

I didn't argue.

I also slept like the dead, which I needed since I'd been um, _up_ most of the last two nights. Monday, I got into work a little late and found Phil holding a cup of coffee out to me as he leaned against the door of the infirmary.

"Thanks," I told him, sipping it gratefully.

"You're welcome," he told me in that quiet little way he has. "When you have a moment, Thor would like to speak with you."

I nodded and got busy with my morning routine, feeling pleasantly achy and downright smug at times as I looked in on the few patients we had and checked on the test results for Cynara. An hour later I left the infirmary and made my way out to the tall blonde figure lingering near the big front windows of the helicarrier. I _wanted_ to look around and see a tall bald figure but restrained myself admirably.

"Thor?" I murmured, coming up to join him. We were on the water, so the view was nice but not quite as spectacular as when airborne.

"Wise woman Josie," he rumbled, "it is good to see you."

"Thanks, you too," I told him. Usually Thor's pretty sunny but today he looked worried, so I got right to the point. "What's up?"

Of course he glanced skyward, then saw my expression and smirked slightly. "You wish to know my thoughts and they are that I am worried about Cynara Sigyn-Laufeyson. She is neither Asgardian nor completely Jotunn. I fear for her lying-in time."

This was a reasonable fear for most men, and Thor had a point here—Cynara's pregnancy was already unique, and although things were proceeding well, I'd already spotted a few anomalies that I wanted to keep an eye on, like her lower than normal body temperature.

I gave a nod. "I understand. This is different for me too, but from what I've seen and checked, all the human, er, Midgardian aspects are doing well."

"That is good," Thor agreed solemnly. "My mother has sent tinctures and a scroll of healer's writings to assist. And of course the birth _must_ happen in Asgard."

"Whoa," I murmured and caught Thor's slightly guilty look. "_Must_? I don't think your side of the family can dictate that sort of thing."

"They are gods; they are not used to being questioned," Thor replied, which was both an apology and explanation all in one. "It will be safer for Midgard."

"That remains to be seen," I countered, half-intrigued, half-appalled at the idea of going off-planet to assist in the birth. "How does Cynara feel about this . . . demand?"

"She does not yet know," Thor admitted, shamefaced. "I have not delivered my mother's request."

I laughed; I couldn't help it. Here was the living embodiment of a Norse _god_ and he was clearly caught between two strong-willed women, knowing he couldn't please them both. Sort of a sitcom of Asgardian proportions as it were. For a moment Thor sulked, but gradually he gave in to my amusement and grinned himself, his sheepish expression making me laugh again.

"I can be there when you make the request, if you'd like. Not that I support it per se, but it's the sort of thing that should be hashed out as part of the birth plan I suppose," I reassured him. "What does Loki think?"

Looking relieved, Thor shrugged. "I have not seen him since I brought him back to Asgard, although my mother has. He will probably agree since he knows we would defend mother and child to the last warrior."

**Fury**

I watched Finkle chat with Thor down by the windows. Not staring at them; just glancing over once in a while, between scans of the computer feeds on the main platform. Most of the helicarrier was back in working order, and we were spending a lot of time delivering equipment to the New Mexico facility while ground crews dug it out and made assessments. Gonna cost taxpayers a fair chunk, even with Stark's donations, but in terms of budget, we've been moved up in priority. In a backhanded way the threat of alien invasion has helped the economy, but you won't hear me say that out loud.

So Thor and Finkle were looking cozy down front and I was debating on how much longer to wait before breaking _that_ up when Hill came striding over. "Sir, we've just gotten visual confirmation of Loki at Outpost Nord."

"By himself?"

"So far," Hill agreed. "We're still scanning, just in case."

I nodded. Hill's got a touch of paranoia that makes her perfect for S.H.I.E.L.D. "Keep me up-to-date then. Probably a . . . conjugal visit."

She winced, and I suspect I did too; none of us were thrilled with Special Technician Sigyn-Laufyson's arrangement, but the compromise was the best we could do for the moment. Frankly the idea that he had the freedom to pop in and out galled the _fuck _out of me, but since I was still his wife's employer I had that tiny bit of leverage.

It's a good thing I'm fairly patient. I waited until there was a natural break in the conversation down below and sauntered my way over, ostensibly to deliver the news about Loki, but really to find out what the hell Thor said that made Finkle flash her _dimples_ at him.

Her dimples.

_Seriously?_

Thor looked to me as I approached. "Fury."

"Thor. Seems that your brother is back in town." Now I had everyone's attention and I risked a peek at Finkle, who was pink.

"With his Sigyn?"

"Currently. Doctor Finkle."

"Colonel," she murmured. "Any chance of seeing him and getting a medical profile?"

"I could arrange for a transport to take you up there," I agreed. The Helicarrier was tied up for the next three days, but getting Finkle back to Canada wouldn't be too difficult. "Are you going too?" That last was to Thor.

Big man made a face. "I suppose I must deliver the . . . request soon," he sighed.

"What request?" Me, I don't like the term 'request' since that's the bullshit word the council uses when they're trying to strong-arm me into something stupid.

So the two of them filled me in on the 'request' and I didn't say anything as I weighed the pros and cons of Asgard's ukase for a long moment.

Pro: Having the joyous event off Earth would take us out of the line of fire.

Con: Having the joyous event in Asgard would give Odin and company one up in claiming Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson and child as one of their own. _Not_ something particularly advantageous to S. H.I.E.L.D.

Pro: Given the bizarre genetics going on, having Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson in the care of folks more familiar with what might or might not be normal seemed smart.

Con: Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson was still predominantly human and had already picked a caregiver that I wasn't _about_ to let off the planet.

Pro: Considering who else Loki might have made as an enemy, having a pantheon on our side looked like the smart move.

Con: Loki would probably rather dress in a French maid costume and wait hand and foot on the Avengers before _ever_ siding with anyone from Asgard.

I shrugged. "Good thing the decision's out of my hands then. Just keep me informed of whatever the outcome is."

Thor looked like a man with a mouthful of wasabi. "Surely the noble warriors of Earth-"

"—know better than to get in the way of two strong-minded women," I finished. "Look, you _both_ know it's gonna come down to mama versus Grandmama, and all we can do is wait until it happens."

Finkle was grinning now, and Thor gave a nod. "There is much truth in your words. I will pass on the message."

"Good. Doctor, if I could have a _word_ with you," I told Finkle, and started for the elevator.

I didn't say anything until the doors had closed and I'd hit the monitor override. "Just so you know, there's no way in hell I'm letting you off this planet."

"Good morning to you too," she shot back, grinning at me. Sometimes the woman is exasperating. "I'm hoping it doesn't come to that either, but we need to keep in mind what's best for the mother and child, Nick. I'm already concerned about her temperature, which is already about five degrees lower than average. I really need to talk to the baby's father."

"Loki. _Not_ my favorite person," I grunted. Since the monitoring off I pulled her into my arms, too damned aware of how little time we had before the elevator stopped. "Thor's going with you; wish I could send Cap too, but Coulson will have to do."

"I'm not afraid of Loki," Finkle told me, and went up on tiptoes to kiss me. Sweet little kiss, made that much nicer by the grope I got in on her ass.

"You_ will_ be," I predicted, and kissed her once more before letting go. "Man's crazier than a sack of honey badgers on crack. Gonna issue you that Glock. Use it if you need to. I _mean_ that, Jo-seph-ine."


	11. Chapter 11

**Finkle**

So I got to meet Cynara's significant other under less than ideal circumstances. I'd heard about Loki, and seen the damage he'd wrought through Manhattan; I mean who hadn't? There had been a few shots of him on television too, mostly news cam shots from Stuttgart, so I knew what he looked like.

Or thought I did, anyway.

We got a distress call about halfway through the trip to Outpost Nord and our pilot put us into some mach gear that had me clinging to the transport seat in mild terror. Phil looked alert, but he kept giving me reassuring glances, and Thor paced around, not even fazed by our speed.

"Think it's a trap?" Phil asked him, and I looked at Thor while he considered the question.

"No," Thor announced. "Mad as my brother is, he would never put his Sigyn nor child in harm's way."

"He's put _you _in harm's way," I muttered, feeling shitty for pointing it out.

Thor gave a wry grin. "That is . . . expected. Loki loathes me, yet it is not in him to bring my death. I have learned that this is the way of _many_ brothers."

I glanced at Phil, who held up his hands in placating fashion. "Strictly sisters. Worst they ever did to me was put polish on my toenails."

I laughed, and it helped. "Yeah?"

"I was _five_ at the time," Phil pointed out drily as Thor laughed in his big Santa 'ho-ho' way.

Before I could ask anything more, Phil's headset crackled and he tapped it to listen to whatever feed was going into his earpiece. Thor came by and rested a hand on my shoulder.

"I do not know why families are more complicated than nations, but they are," he sighed.

"Tell me about it," I muttered, and then had to add, "That just means I agree with you," because Thor looked as if he was ready to launch into a saga.

We got to Outpost Nord, and pacing out front was a tall guy in green leather armor, his body language definitely dangerous. It was easy to see that he was ready to take a swing at anyone getting close, and yet Thor leaped out of the transport before we landed, striding over like it was perfectly safe.

"Loki!" he bellowed and they went at it for a few punches but by the time the transport landed it was over. Phil and I hustled to them, and I was surprised to see him with his weapon out.

"He killed me once; I'm a little overly cautious," Phil told me quietly.

Then Thor got an armlock around Loki, calming him down a bit. "Tell us what has happened, brother!"

"My bride has been abducted," Loki shot out, and he looked like even saying it tasted bad. "Taken from under me!"

"Taken?" this was from Phil and Thor, so I just let everyone yell a bit while I watched and listened. From what I could figure out, Cynara and her hubby had gone to dinner and come home. Some point after they'd gone to sleep she'd been abducted, and now Loki was ready to fly off the handle.

"Should I be getting a needle full of Librium ready?" I murmured to Phil, who shook his head.

"Probably wouldn't work on him, and he's here voluntarily from what I can see. Let's move this inside and see what we can get straight."

Somewhere along the way Thor introduced me and I got one hell of an unnerving stare as Loki nodded. I could see why Nick had warned me; the guy resonated to a strange vibe. Phil did the questioning, Thor did the restraining, and Loki kept repeating what he'd already said.

He was distressed, yeah, and I couldn't help feeling sorry for him, especially when more and more agents kept coming into the room. Maybe I wasn't an authority on Asgardians but I could see the stress building up so I tugged on Phil's sleeve and told him, "Loki is either going to blow up or run if this keeps going. How about we take things down a notch and let me check him over?"

One of the things I love about Phil is that for all his rank and experience, he really _does_ listen to suggestions. He quietly told everyone to step out, and while that was going on I brought Loki a glass of water and sat down next to him on the sofa. He stared at the water and I motioned for him to drink it. "You're stressed; water will help."

Then he stared at me while Phil and Thor were having some sort of a pow wow on the other side of the living room.

I stared back; having dealt with Nick Fury, I wasn't as easily intimidated as I used to be.

Loki drank the water and I felt a sense of relief that lasted all the way until he dropped the glass and gave a tiny smirk. "You _reek_ of him, you know. I can smell his breath on your skin," he whispered.

For a moment I froze, and then something—maybe my mother's chutzpah—kicked in and I leaned in to whisper back. "But honey, he's hung like a rhino and even lets me wear the coat and the eyepatch sometimes."

Loki blinked.

While _that_ mental image froze him on the spot, I gave him my laziest smile, reaching for his wrist. "All right, now let me take your pulse and tell me how Cynara looked last night, because when _we_ left her she was doing pretty good."

"She . . . was well. We had eaten, and taken our pleasure of each other," Loki began slowly while I found his pulse point on his cold arm.

**Fury**

One of the embroideries my mother had hanging on her kitchen wall was done up in a ring of fancy stitched flowers, and I'll never forget it because I stared at it every damned morning over breakfast. It said in cross-stitch letters: _Lord give me patience and I want it right NOW, damn it!_

A little sacrilegious, but my mother believed that given everything going on in life, making a few demands now and then was her due. Patience was _not_ one of her virtues, and it certainly wasn't one of mine, particularly at the moment. From what Phil was telling me, this kidnapping was _exactly_ the sort of thing I'd been predicting was going to happen, and now that it had here I was doing damned _escort_ duty for a load of concrete.

I had every resource on high alert, and every branch of the military on standby as well so on a pragmatic level every base was as covered as I could make it, but what I _needed_ was information and while Phil is good, I would rather be there myself. Fortunately I was able to get Hill and her subordinates to finish the deliveries and took a jet up to Outpost Nord, trying not to think about Finkle and Loki.

Particularly not about what mind games he'd try on her.

His type always does that sort of shit, and while Coulson and I have had some experience with sociopaths, I didn't think Finkle encountered too many of them in her line of work. Turns out I didn't have to worry; when I got there everyone was gathered in the conference room down in the bunker, with Loki sitting right between Phil and Thor.

I kept my eye on Phil; he's the best, but being so close to someone who'd done their damnedest to kill him couldn't be good for the man's psyche. He gave me a nod and I briefly glanced at Finkle, who tried to look professional.

"From the top," I told them, and sat down. Didn't take long. Apparently Loki'd stopped by Earth to show his babymama a night out on the town and they'd been ambushed when they'd slept. The only clues were some strange residue along one doorway and what looked like down from one of the comforters. Neither of those added up to much, and I had my doubts about the whole set-up.

Loki agreed to being put in protective custody, which would have made the hair on the back of my neck stand up if I had any. Somewhere in all this was a catch, and the damned problem was figuring out if Loki was part of it or not.

The next three days were hell. Apparently Loki couldn't sleep, and because of that he kept saying he couldn't make some sort of mental contact with Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson on some astral-ass plane somewhere. He got irritable, I got irritable and none of that helped anyone a damned bit.

I couldn't keep the military on high alert, and I only dropped S.H.I.E.L.D.'s status by one notch during that time. Coulson had leads on where most of the Avengers where but we weren't going to call them up unless absolutely necessary, and determining just when _that_ would be was keeping _me_ up at night.

And then there was the matter of not being able to get my hands on Finkle.

When we'd become an item I'd been under the mistaken assumption that we'd have moments, weekends of privacy to get things on. I'd forgotten how a good crisis can throw every damned plan to hell, and it wasn't being helped by the fact that she was constantly within arm's reach. Over the years I've gotten good at staying focused, but Finkle was a _definite_ distraction.

But she was also becoming our resident expert on alien biology which meant that against my better judgment I needed to keep her on hand without a chance to get hands on. And _that_ did not help my mood one damned bit.

The first day I showed up Loki stared at me and slowly shook his head. I suspected something was up but didn't push it until I had a chance to talk to Finkle in her medical office later. When she told me what had been said I came as close as I ever have to losing my temper with her.

"You don't _confirm_ or _deny_ with a hostile! Basic interrogation strategy, woman!"

"I wasn't interrogating him; I was giving him basic medical _care_, Colonel. And on top of that, he was doing it to get a rise out of me, so I thought I'd turn the tables on him. I'm taking care of his wife and kid; Loki's not going to harm me."

"And what makes you think he's not gonna harm the _rest_ of us? Use any and all information he gets to coerce and extort his way around the planet?"

Finkle gave me that stricken, lip-biting 'shit I didn't think of that' look and I sighed.

"The_ only_ leverage we have with Loki is his wife and child; don't_ think_ he wouldn't play the same card with any of us here, and I do _not_ want to see you turned into a pawn on _his_ side of the board, Josie."

Yeah I was pissed. And under it? Something a _lot_ more complicated.

She stood there pale and silent and I couldn't take it anymore. Stepped over and wrapped my arms around her just because it was the right damned thing to do for both of us. We stayed that way for a while, and I waited until I felt her start to relax a bit.

"Is . . . is it going to be okay?" I heard her mumble somewhere against my shoulder, wet sort of splutters against me and it hit me suddenly that she'd been crying.

Oh no. I don't do the crying woman thing. _No_.

"Doc-tor Finkle tell me you are _not_ crying."

She sniffled. "I am _not_ crying you momzer, I just . . . got something in my eye. It happens."

I pulled back and looked at her; woman glared at me in the best display of chutzpah I'd seen in ages.

"Yeah," I told her gruffly. "Of course you _know_ what this means, right?"

"Wh-what?"

"Now I really AM gonna have to let you wear the coat and eye-patch."


	12. Chapter 12

**Finkle**

Men. Seems it doesn't matter what planet they're from, some of the basic attitudes and responses are the same. Here I was with a bunch of human ones, an Asgardian and an Ice Giant, and yet they _all_ still seemed to think someone else was going to do the cooking, and certainly that their needs would be met without any input on their part.

I suppose Fury had reason to believe that, since S.H.I.E.L.D. logistics took care of the food and laundry situation at Outpost Nord, but it was taking some getting used to, this dealing with people who dabbled in magic and otherworld physics. Phil had given me the rundown on the whole 'brothers by adoption' story, so I had a grasp on _why_ Thor and Loki were squabbling, and once I got around the potential for destroying worlds it was pretty hilarious to listen to them.

Yes we were all worried about Cynara, and everyone was trying to figure out what was going on, but in-between all that, the petty sniping between the Golden Retriever and the Greyhound had its entertainment value.

"Now you are thrall to _two_ one-eyed kings," Loki sneered at Thor while I was trying to get a blood sample from him. "And neither sees well enough to know what a fool you are."

"I am thrall only to Odin; Fury has my _alliance_," Thor replied. "Honestly earned thanks to your schemes, Loki."

"Alliance—he uses you like the big, blunt weapon you are. " Loki gritted his teeth as I withdrew the needle. "_That_ was . . . unpleasant."

"You're a god," I pointed out to him blandly. "And as a healer I've done worse things to men. _Much_ worse."

Loki looked at Thor, who nodded. "It is legendary, the test of courage at their flying fortress. _First_ she will don the gauntlet of invading latex," he intoned, "and _then_, when you are disrobed, and bent over the pillowed table—"

"Enough," I interrupted Thor as sternly as I could, although I was dying on the inside. Loki was green already and Thor wasn't helping matters. I waved Thor out and looked at his brother carefully. We were in the medical unit and under guard; I was sure he wouldn't try anything but it was as much privacy as we were going to get. Once the door closed I spoke up again.

"Cynara mentioned this dream link thing you two have. You're sure you can reach her that way?"

"Yes," he replied, with no hesitation at all. "Our tie was forged by magic and myth, powers that link our two worlds, our two beings."

"And you can't sleep because . . ."

"I don't _know_!" Loki blurted in exasperation. "Such a matter should be simple, to lie, to sleep, to dream, but whenever I close my eyes I slumber not!"

I knew he was seriously vexed because he was lapsing into that formal Asgardian way of speaking, the one Thor uses when his temper is up. Carefully, I rested my palm on the back of his hand. Cool skin. I would have worried if he'd been human.

"There are drugs . . . medicines that can aid sleep," I pointed out. "I'm sure we've something that can help."

"Drugs. Does your half-sighted king think me a fool? If I must resort to such, have my brother bring compounds from Asgard. Night draught might work, or Yew leaves brewed in dark ale."

"Yeah, and when those don't work, _we've_ got a few compounds that might do the trick." I was getting pissed now. It's one thing to be a worried husband and another to be a total dick. I already had more than enough right here within reach to put him _deep_ into Lala-land but being the ethical sort, I didn't want to risk it without a few tests.

After all, nobody would be pleased with me if I ended up killing Loki instead of getting him to sleep. Well, Fury might, but I wasn't going to let it happen. For one thing Cynara was a patient and friend of mine, even if her hubby had a staff up his butt.

So we sent Thor off on an Asgardian shopping trip and decided to leave Loki to rest a bit. I ran tests on his samples and got busy. So busy in fact that when Fury slipped into the lab hours later and cleared his throat I realized it was nearly eleven at night.

"Dedication to duty is one thing, doctor, but I'm pretty sure you haven't eaten all day, have you?" he chided.

I looked over my shoulder at him, aware that we were both being monitored and gave him a nicely bland smile. "Sorry, Colonel. Got a little pre-occupied. I'll go grab something right now."

From the look on Fury's face I could see he had some serious suggestions about exactly _what_ I should be grabbing, and I nearly laughed out loud. Instead I got up and made it a point to brush past him, one hand lightly running across his thighs as I did so. I'll give him credit; he didn't jump but I could _feel_ his glare against the back of my head.

Most of the outpost was quiet, with only two agents on duty. There were cold-cuts in the kitchen along with bread and other sandwich fixings so I got busy making myself a meal. My cell phone vibrated so I checked the message.

_Upstairs bathroom. Now._

Of course. The only places not monitored for reasons of privacy were the bathrooms, and the upstairs one was huge. Slowly I finished making my dinner, then humming to myself, carried it up the stairs and slipped into the bathroom.

He pounced. Thank God I was ready for it, because my sandwich would have ended up as a splatter of mustard and pastrami on the tiles if I hadn't held it away from myself as Fury snaked one arm around my waist and pulled me to him.

"I am _extremely_ frustrated," he growled into my ear before nipping the lobe and making me shiver. I shoved the plate onto the counter and wrapped my arms around him, grateful for the warmth and strength.

"Ditto," I assured him, and shuddered when Nick ran his goatee along the side of my neck.

"Right now I do not give a_ damn_ about abductions, aliens, invasions or insomnia," he continued softly. "How about you?"

"_Do_ me," I told him. "Right here, right now."

**Fury**

I can take orders. Been a soldier long enough to do that, and when they're for the greater good, I'm more than willing to do what I'm told.

Like right now.

Stealth was mandatory, and logistics being what they were we managed. The bathroom counters were just about the perfect height for interpersonal maneuvers and having Josie's hands and mouth all over me expedited matters considerably.

The fact that she was giggling, moaning, and generally broadcasting our little interlude wasn't _helping_ however, so I made it clear that she needed to_ hush_ if we were going to keep getting our freak on. For some damned reason that particular phrase made her laugh all the harder, but she pressed her face to my shoulder to smother it, and wiggled her hips in a way that told _me_ to shut up and bring it home.

Beds are nice, particularly for a man my age, but a woman like Jo-seph-ine Finkle is worth the wear and tear on the knees because _damn_! The two of us fogged up the mirror and window and probably would have set off the fire alarm if there had been one _in_ there. As it was, we both ended up sprawled over the counter and it was a bonafide miracle her sandwich hadn't taken a dive in the toilet.

"You win," she sighed at me, pink in the face as she tried to pull her blouse back together. "I'm _definitely_ going to be limping."

"You won't be the _only_ one," I admitted and straightened up slowly. "Probably shouldn't have done this, but . . ."

"I think we both needed it," Josie told me. I helped her slide off the counter and kissed her while doing it, taking a moment to enjoy all the heat radiating off of her. She kissed me back, and we took our time getting dressed again, opening the window to cool down the room.

"You're wonderful," she told me, and I pulled her close again, suddenly grateful for more than just the quickie. There's a wide gray area in any relationship when the connections between people start to solidify, and I knew damned well that ours had been getting stronger.

"Wish it was true."

"It is," Finkle shot back, and looked at herself in the mirror. "Gahh! Oh I'm going to need a hairbrush!"

"I won't," I reminded her, and gave the woman a last kiss before slipping out and making my way down the stairs to the back door. A quick check-in with Coulson told me that Loki still wasn't asleep, Thor still wasn't back, and that Agent Romanov had tracked some Hydra technology through Lithuania and could she have a team to follow up on it?

The next week was a pain in the ass. The longer Loki stayed awake the worse he looked and the meaner he got. Thor showed up with a couple of bottles that Finkle took samples from and we gave _one_ of them to Loki. He drank it and passed out, but by the time Thor and I picked him up and got him on a bed he was already waking up again, eyes red, skin looking like someone had chiseled tattoos on him.

Apparently _certain_ Asgard compounds don't work on Ice Giants; they only piss them off.

The second one also knocked him out, but_ not_ to the level of sleep he needed, apparently. He was in sort of a trance state, limp but conscious, and becoming one sarcastic fuck in the process. Heard his unfiltered opinions on S.H.I.E.L.D., Earth, Odin, Hulk, breakfast cereal and Stark.

The one about Stark I agreed with, by the way. 'Trumped-up tin-armored braggart with a death-fetish' is a pretty good summary of the man, even if he did save Manhattan. Besides, he didn't do it alone as he damned well knows.

Anyway I couldn't hang around waiting for Loki's bedtime so I headed back to our project in the Southwest, monitoring the re-building and running the rest of the operations by the book. Had to be grateful that Finkle understood and I told Coulson he was to make sure she got rest and food. Wish I could say I didn't spot the smirk on his face, but it was there, just under the usual calm. Phil's one of the best, both within the organization and as liaison to everyone outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. but the man knows too damned much sometimes.

Good thing he's on _our_ side. Sometimes I have nightmares that Loki turned him instead of Barton, and believe me, the outcome of Manhattan would have been a hell of a lot worse in _that_ scenario.

Barton's a good man, but Coulson could have had the Chitauri moving into the White House by sunset.

Anyway, I tried to keep myself occupied—which normally isn't as difficult as that sounds—but I kept getting encrypted texts.

_I have beard rash from you. Thanks a lot._

_Could have been worse._

_How?_

_Could have been someplace other than your *neck* Jo-seph-ine._

_You know I'm missing you like crazy, right?_

_Getting that impression. Feeling's reciprocated. How's Loki?_

_I'm worried about him. Going to try some Earth pharmaceuticals on him tonight. He's getting desperate._

_Not the only one. You prepared for a worst case scenario?_

_I'm a doctor; I'm always prepared for that._

_Wish I could say I was. Watch your ass, Josie—I'm going to want it when I get back up there. Fury out._

And _that_ was about as affectionate as I was going to let myself get, particularly cross-country. Hill brought me more paperwork and I knew I was going to have to chat with the council in a few hours, bring them up to date on the Loki situation. I sincerely wasn't looking forward to that, not in the aftermath of their unauthorized nuclear strike attempt.

Yeah it's lonely at the top. Never thought it was going to be a picnic, but it hadn't bothered me as much before.

Guess getting involved with someone does that. Puts a hell of a lot into perspective.

And damn it, it absolutely _kills_ me to feel empathy for Loki.


	13. Chapter 13

**Finkle**

Loki still had trouble sleeping—or at least getting to the level needed to contact Cynara. After talking with him and his brother, I developed a theory that the Ice Giants and Asgardians had the ability to use astral projection, and that Odinsleep was a probably a part of that. Whoever had grabbed Cynara had used some sort of anti-sleep agent on Loki, though, and neither I nor Doctor Agrino could figure out what it was, although it seemed to be wearing off, gradually.

It wasn't fun being around him. Not that he was mean all the time, no. Loki _brooded._ It was like having a tall green Heathcliff pacing around, all gaunt cheekbones and sulks, getting more dangerous by the minute. Thor and I were in some untouchable category, but I didn't like the idea that the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, particularly Phil, were vulnerable.

Still, some of our best soporifics were working a bit, and Loki was dipping into REM for a few minutes at a time a week later. I took notes and saved test results, building a file on him that I hoped would help.

And I was worried about Cynara too, but I wasn't going to stress out over what I couldn't change for the moment and put some faith in that we'd all find her eventually. It's weird how just being around people like Fury and Thor can do a lot to build a sense of confidence.

Sneaking around is not really my style. However, I have to admit that it was a lot of fun. Practically the _only_ fun up here in Saskatchewan in fact. A couple of weeks after Nick had left I received instructions to show up at La Ronge Hotel by ten AM for a 'debriefing' to be held in one of the suites overlooking the lake.

Stepping through a door and being pounced on by the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. never gets old, and we didn't come up for air for about fifteen minutes. When I did, I tried to chide Nick about using taxpayer's money for personal reasons but he assured me it was all on his own dime and was I going to waste time talking or was there a bed that needed two bodies on it, pronto?

And _then_ the devious bastard had the audacity to spend the next two _hours_ in the longest, slowest screw I've never had. Drove me out of my _mind_ to be taken to the edge over and over like that, but my spluttering threats must have finally worked because by the time he decided to finish things off I was raking gouges in his muscled ass.

And he laughed, the gorgeous schmuck. Honestly, if Nick Fury wasn't so damned good in bed I probably would have yelled at him but by that point I was too exhausted and blissed out, so I had to settle for making him sleep on the wet spot again. Not that he ever seemed to care, so I asked him about it.

"I've slept on a lotta _other_ fluids in my years, Jo-seph-ine, and at least semen means I had a good time," he assured me. "Washes off, no harm done."

We slept for a while, and when I woke up he was watching me, looking unusually thoughtful. That scared me, for a lot of reasons. I was getting to know Nick pretty well, but under all the Nick I already knew and even under the Nick was going to _get_ to know was a core that I'd never be able to reach. Part of it had to do with his age; he'd been through a lot of life I hadn't, of course. And part of it had to do with what he did, which was to make the kinds of decisions nobody should _have_ to make.

And Nick had to make them over and over all the time.

I thought being a doctor was hard. Yes I've had to deal with life or death decisions, but they're not an everyday occurrence for me, not even up on the helicarrier. Nick on the other hand, has to cope with so much responsibility that I'm surprised he's still sane.

So I reached up to touch his face. "You okay? Sorry about your ass . . ."

That got a little smile. "It _did_ seem like you were going all Champawat back there. Might have to do a lot of _standing_ once I get out of here."

"Well if someone wasn't taking his time in the _slow_ lane . . ."

"Hush your _mouth_, woman; you loved it," he murmured indulgently, but his expression was still serious.

"I am pleading the Fifth on that," I sighed. "What's bothering you? Is it Cynara?"

He looked like he wasn't going to answer, but then he sighed. "Partially that. The longer she's missing the worse things look. Thor's got some of the folks in Asgard looking too, but space is one big damn nothing for the most part. Officially I can't request help beyond S.H.I.E.L.D. resources unless and until there's a threat to the planet."

"Not good," I ventured, running a hand over his chest, because I get distracted easily, "and the other part?"

I could see him hesitate again, but instead of speaking, he reached out and splayed one big hand on my hip, fingers wide. "Nothing."

It was the tone that got to me; I had a pretty good idea of what was going on through his head so I laid my hand over his and squeezed. "I missed you too, sweetheart. It's okay-I know sentiment isn't your style."

For that I got a skeptical look, and he pulled me up against him, tucking me against his side, good and close. "You want the whole hearts and flowers thing? Boxes of chocolates and motherfucking poetry?"

I laughed. "If you _ever_ write me poetry, Colonel Fury, I'll do anything you want."

That was a mistake, of course, because when I looked at him he was grinning again, and in a way that had my toes curling and my stomach clenching. "Nick-" I tried, but he shook his head to cut me off.

"Oh you are in a world of trouble now, Josie. Not _only_ can I write poetry like Pablo fucking Neruda, but I've also been considering an entire _repertoire_ of filthy and deviant acts we need to try."

He was teasing of course. He _had_ to be, right? I mean when you look at a six foot plus warrior with an eye-patch and a goatee, the first thing that springs to mind is generally _not_ 'poet.' "You're _serious_?"

"As a heart attack. I minored in English Lit half a century ago on my G.I Bill. Back before Robert Frost was Poet Laureate," Fury informed me. "When Maya Angelou was living in Ghana and hadn't even written I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings yet."

"Geez, what did you _major_ in?" I had to know as I tried to picture what he must have looked like in the early sixties.

Fury snorted. "International Economics."

**Fury**

It was a little scary how quickly Finkle was picking up on my moods. I know as a doctor she's adept at body language and non-verbal cues, but at the same time, _my_ job is to be unreadable, so if my defenses were down, this wasn't good.

But on top of that, it was. I trust—_truly_ trust- only a handful of people on the planet, and Finkle was now moving into that exclusive group. She was also smart enough to know I was changing the subject and letting me do it, so that made her tactful and compassionate as well. More and more this woman was getting to me, and I wasn't sure if I should let it continue.

I mean, by the rules she'd set down, Finkle and I were only going to be together for a few months more—probably _fewer_ if things went bad with Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson. Now I'm a grown man and I understand the hard realities of the world. I've fucking _lived_ through the hard realities of the world for decades, and I can tell you that as you get older, you appreciate the comforts a lot more. A _whole_ lot more.

Not just the sex, although that was getting addictive. No, there were the texts and discussions and general time together when I didn't _have_ to be a badass motherfucker keeping my one good eye scanning for trouble. Around her I could be less of a warrior and more of a man.

In a lot of ways.

So now it was up to me to . . . change the rules. Not like I didn't have experience with doing that. If you balanced out the majority of my decisions, it probably weighs more on the side of me _taking_ the initiative over what I've been_ told _to do, which is fine by me.

In this case, it was personal. Choosing to shake things up between us wasn't going to change any world politics as far as I could tell. The big risk would be how she would take it, and how I would deal with things if it all went bad.

And_ That_ did not bear thinking about, not while I was lying there with Finkle with my hands all over her sweet ass. She was gorgeous, hair all tangled and over her shoulders, pink-faced and full of sass.

"You really like my butt?"

"Like you have to ask?"

"You could . . ." and then she blushes. All over, because I can see it. "Um, like it a lot _more_, you know."

Not gonna lie; not only did I know _exactly_ what she was talking about, but the thought of it definitely put some rebar into my personal infrastructure.

I didn't want to give away my enthusiasm though, so I gave her a gruff look. "Is that so?"

"Not right this minute!" Finkle warned me. "I'm going to need a hot bath and a reasonable amount of alcohol first. I'm not exactly an expert at . . . _it_, and you're not exactly _small_, Nick."

"True." I was trying not to gloat but not having a lot of success with that. "So, you're seriously offering a booty call?"

"Down the road, yes," she admitted. "Not something to be rushed, but the offer's on the table. Or bed, in this case."

"And is this something _you_ want as well, right? Not just suggesting it to please me?"

"Nick Fury, since when have I _ever_ done anything just to please _you?"_

Yeah, that was more like the Finkle I knew . . .

And loved.

Shit.

Before I could say anything stupid and have that luscious offer rescinded I rolled her over and went for the 'take no prisoners' zone on her neck. She squealed and tried to retaliate, which made things a lot more fun.

"Want me to write a sonnet about dat ass?" I asked her, just to hear her laugh.

"What—Shall I Compare Your Butt to a Summer's Day?" she snickered. "I don't think Shakespeare was into big round thangs, Colonel."

"Literature's loss, my _personal_ gain. I'm good with it, hear?"

Whatever else Finkle might have said got lost because both of our cell phones went off at the same time. She looked confused, but I knew damned well what THAT meant, and I picked up mine first, shaking my head so she knew not to pick up hers yet. "Fury here."

Knew it would be Coulson, and I _knew_ it would be damned important.

"Loki's gone, sir. He managed about ten minutes of REM and then took off. Said he knew where Sigyn-Laufeyson was."

"I will_ be_ there in fifteen minutes. Have surveillance footage ready for review and move everyone into the underground rooms. Make sure Hill is on stand-by."

"Yes sir. We're trying to reach Doctor Finkle as well."

I could hear it in his tone and winced a little. Phil had _said_ he didn't hold a grudge; that he could replace the blood-smeared ones, but the guilt was still there and he knew_ just_ how to use just a splinter of it in the right place.

"Fury out," I grumbled, just to let him know that _I_ knew _he_ knew.

I gave my girl the nod and she picked up. "Hello? What? Yes, okay, okay, I'll duck out and get back," she murmured as I headed to the can for the quickest shower on the planet.

Made sense for Josie to get there first so I gave her a twenty minute head start, and checked in with Hill in the meantime. Summer was coming and the late afternoon sun made the drive towards the outpost a bitch. As I drove, I hoped like hell that Loki at least had the advantage of surprise on whoever the son of a bitch was who'd grabbed Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson; at the very least whoever it was had made a damned big mistake.

I also spent some time thinking about iambic pentameter, and exactly how I was going to pull off an ode to my baby's glorious tuchus.


	14. Chapter 14

**Finkle**

And so we waited. I got in, checked in with Phil and spent the majority of my time trying to have the medical facility laid out for triage. See? This is what being in S.H.I.E.L.D. has done to _me_, a perfectly normal obstetrician. I was prepping for casualties and trying to see where the nearest medical facilities were located, just in case.

Fury was around too, looking bleak and making it a point not to talk to me too much, even though I could see the stress making those brackets around his mouth. To be fair everywhere _else_ on him seemed more relaxed and I took quiet personal credit for that, oh yes. The benefits of athletic sex for both of us were pretty nice.

And then, just after sunset, the alarms went off. Both Fury and Phil headed for the door and I scooted myself into the medical facility, readying myself for the worst.

Loki came in with her and she looked pretty good from the outside. Gooey for some reason, but not wounded or injured as far as I could see. I checked her over pretty thoroughly and from what I could see she was just about at the twentieth week now—two month's jump, but hey, that's what the tests were indicating.

Did a sonogram and there _she_ was, a blurry active little ball doing everything but waving at us. Once I saw that, a lot of the tension went out of _my_ shoulders and pointed out a few of her cuter features to her parents. I could tell both of them were exhausted, but being able to reassure them felt good, and I sent Cynara and Loki to bed happy.

Then I put in about three hours into observation records and some study of the gooey stuff. Turned out to be albumen, although not from any bird on file. I sent samples to the helicarrier and to S.H.I.E.L.D. labs and went to go turn in, feeling seriously worn-out.

Fury was in my room, looking out the window, glowering at the universe in general. I shot him a patient glance. "Stop feeling guilty and stop pretending you _don't_ feel guilty. For all we know it was our fantastic love vibe that projected Mr. Sleepless in Saskatchewan to the right spot."

"I used to think_ Stark _was a loose cannon," came Fury's grumble. "Compared to him, Loki's a fuckin Jiffy-lubed _armada."_

"Yeah, well we can be grateful that he's on _our _side for the moment," I shot back and headed for the bathtub. Fury followed me.

"So now you're my lifeguard?"

"Just making sure your back's properly scrubbed," he settled in on the edge of the tub and soaped up the loofah. I let him; after all, if he needs something therapeutic to do, this is a hell of a lot better than having him go down to the firing range.

Blissful. Hot water, big strong hands working shampoo and then conditioner in to my hair—talk about heavenly. The man had hidden talents and now I was determined to exploit them.

"Fabulous," I sighed. "You could give up your day job and open a spa; you'd make a killing, Nick."

"The only killing I'll make is if you _tell_ someone I did this," he muttered. "My reputation does _not_ include hairdressing."

"Could have fooled me," I let him rinse my scalp down and towel my hair, feeling utterly pampered. "Is this some sort of attempt for a nightcap?"

"Oh I don't think so, Jo-seph-ine, not with the way you scream my name."

I didn't even have to _look_ at him to know he was gloating. "They're not screams. They're . . . enthusiastic pronouncements."

"Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that. In any case we're on the job right now, which means anything personal is off the table."

"Oh really?" I rose up out of the tub and wrapped a towel around myself, grateful that Outpost Nord had bath sheets. "You wash Phil's hair a lot, do you?"

This was so weird. I mean, sure we were hooked up, but this was more like . . . relationship stuff. I was pretty sure there was supposed to be a boundary here somewhere but at the same time it felt so damned good to have him here that I was confused. So I moved past him and plucked my nightgown from the back of the door and slipped it on.

"Phil Coulson is a trained agent; he can handle his own damned grooming. Besides, I had another reason for being here, and that's Sigyn-Laufeyson. Is it just me, or is she a little farther _along_ on her pregnancy than she was before?"

I nodded. "Yeah. She's jumped about six weeks on the timeline, but so far she's healthy and I'm monitoring her. Any explanation on your end?"

"Warped time," Fury shrugged. "Not a common phenomenon but not unheard of either. We've got specialists looking into it, even if Loki's not giving up a lot of details." Even as he talked the man was watching me put lotion on, which was a little unnerving.

"Well I intend on staying up and keeping an eye on her. Aside from the 'phenomenon' as you call it, I think it's time to make sure I'm on hand."

Fury grunted. "I know. You'll be staying here and I'll be . . ." he waved a hand towards the universe, "out there, doing shit."

"Hey," I told him. "For what it's worth, today was _pretty_ fabulous. And I'm glad we got my patient back."

He came over and hand to God, I swear, Nick Fury _tucked me in_. "Yeah, I know what you mean. All right, you get some sleep, hear? I probably won't be here when you get up but you'll be hearing from me soon, woman."

True to his word he and the helicarrier were gone in the morning, and yeah, I missed him. Oh I had plenty to do, and whatever spare time I did have I used to make sure I didn't go too stir-crazy here in the great white north, but it wasn't easy.

I'm a city girl, or at the very least, a concentrated population girl at heart. I _like_ traffic noises and bustling streets and new faces. Outpost Nord was not a major social scene, and although Saskatchewan has oodles of rustic charm, I missed the congestion and teeming throngs so typical of New York and her boroughs. Ever try to find good pastrami in Canada? Not easy or cheap, although I was getting fond of poutine in the meantime.

What got to me though, was when 'Nara's friends and relatives threw her a baby shower. You'd think I'd be used to those in my line of work, and I do get invitations from my patients on a semi-regular basis, but this time was different. At other showers I know at least one other person besides my patient, and I can schmooze with the best of them.

But this one . . . I mean I recognized 'Nara's mom, sort of, but I didn't know her mother in law—who was incredibly _gorgeous_ btw—and the other guests were S.H.I.E.L.D. folks I hadn't met and some academic types who were as rune-crazy as my patient. A very mixed bag, and I couldn't _quite_ blend in the way I usually do. Phil and I ended up together at one end of the room, watching over things, and it was easy to see he was as out-of-place as I was in a gathering like this.

"So, going to play any of the party games?" I asked him, to break the ice.

"I'd win them all, and that would lead to awkward questions," Phil assured me. "Each of my sisters has at least two kids, so I've had a _lot_ of practice. _You_ should play, though."

"Not generally my schtick," I replied, watching 'Nara unwrapping something amid cooing. "In fact this whole party . . ." I waved, "It's . . ."

Phil nodded empathetically. "Weird."

"Weird," I agreed, and then excused myself because I was getting verklempt. I left and went to my office, staying there for nearly forty minutes while I tried to collect myself and figure out why the hell I couldn't handle having a lover in charge of world security and a patient who was going to give birth to the first human/ice giant hybrid.

**Fury**

Agent Romanov's Lithuanian field trip had paid off and what with the cleaning out of yet another Hydra base I was starting to wonder if someone out there was hunting the damned things down a few steps ahead of us. In the meantime we had a few last deliveries to the Southwest, a clandestine rendezvous rescue with some NATO forces who'd gotten stranded in some Afghanistan mountain pass and a bunch of pissy little maintenance drills that I would have _paid _to get out of if I'd could.

Busy shit, yeah, and all for the greater good I suppose but being busy didn't stop me from wondering about a certain obstetrician and how she was doing. Not that I let it get in the way of doing my job, you understand, but I _was_ aware of gaps in my time where it would have been nice to see her. Hold her. Do other age-appropriate activities not meant for public consumption as the saying goes.

Truth was, Finkle had started out by jump-starting my libido, but that wasn't the only thing she'd woken up. I found myself texting her before climbing into bed, and keeping watch on what she'd left behind here in the states. She'd never know it, but I had both her practice and her mother under S.H.I.E.L.D. protection, ostensibly because of her connection to the extraterrestrial birth thing, but also because it made me feel better to know I could do that for her.

Shit. Jo-seph-ine Finkle wasn't _getting_ to me; she'd fucking _landed_ me and I damned well knew it.

There were a lot of ways to fuck this up, and only a few ways to get it right, so I started working on my strategy, starting with the damned sonnet. Took me a week to get it right and a lot of paper because I wasn't _about_ to have something that dangerous on any computer file.

Stupid, I know. If anybody had told me I'd be writing fucking poetry again I'd probably have them shot on general principal. Tased at the _very_ damned least. And yet here I was, taking the risk and for what? The chance to make Finkle smile? To prove to her I had an education that included liberal arts?

Maybe it was about reminding _myself_ that there was more to life than the job.

So a few weeks later I got a text. Not from Finkle, though—from Coulson.

_You need to talk to the doc._

That was suspicious, and I needed more information.

_I'm not pregnant_. _What's this about?_

_She misses you, boss._

Damn. So much for the two of us being under the radar. Should have realized that if _anyone_ was going to figure out my relationship with Finkle it would be Phil.

I stared at the message, trying to figure out what to say. Coulson wouldn't have contacted me if it wasn't important, but this was personal as well, which meant it was hard to figure out what to say.

_I'm on it. _I finally typed, and added, _thanks._

Nothing after that, thank God. If he'd smiley-faced me I would have kicked his ass through the phone. Instead I texted Doctor Finkle.

_Talk to me, woman._

Nearly fifteen minutes went by before I got a reply; not a good sign.

_You're either psychic or you've got a spy. Which is it?_

_Neither. Apparently Cupid's last name is Coulson. Damn, I really didn't need to give myself the diaper imagery on that._

_I will kill Phil. I'm fine. Just . . . going a little stir-crazy. _

Yeah I could relate. I've been stuck on missions like that myself. _Rendezvous in two hours, dinner up here. And you can't kill Coulson; it's been tried._

_I'm a doctor, I could find a way that sticks. Dinner?_

_Dinner, on me. _I texted.

_Literally?_

_Tables are not an option._

That got a string of symbols that I took to mean she approved, but I had to shut things down quick when Hill came over to report. Bad enough to be caught grinning, let alone texting.

We changed course and headed north, making pretty good time despite the weather. Apparently parts of Canada hadn't gotten the message it was late spring and the carrier hit some serious cloud cover, but nothing we couldn't fly through. Tried not to pace around too much; it makes the bridge crew nervous.

For the record I don't think _any_ S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost has ever hosted a baby shower before, particularly one that included two male aliens. Loki at least looked uncomfortable, but Thor was making headway through the cake, washing it down with steins of beer and making small talk with everyone. I wondered why the god of thunder had so many damned clothespins on his cape, but not enough to ask.

Coulson intercepted me in the hallway and tried not to look smug. Since he's the master of the bland expression it was tough to tell; I have to judge it myself by centimeters of smirk.

"Glad you could make it, sir."

I harrumphed, just to let him know_ I_ knew that _he_ knew and I wasn't pleased about it. In turn I got a fraction _more_ of the smirk, which meant Coulson knew damned well _he_ was in the catbird seat.

For the moment, anyway.

"I don't _do_ baby showers."

"I . . . don't think Doctor Finkle does either," he replied, and there was just enough in his tone to give me the heads up. So I nodded and went off to the medical section of the base, confident that I'd have the privacy I needed.

Still gorgeous. I looked at her from the doorway for a moment and then took everything _else_ in. Piles of files, neglected slice of cake, wads of Kleenex peeking out of the wastepaper basket . . . yeah, my baby was in a bad way. I stepped in and nudged the door closed behind me. "Doctor."

She looked up and fumbled her pen. "C-Colonel Fury."

"_Got_ something for you," I told her, and handed over a piece of paper. Finkle looked at me, confused.

"Yeah, well I've got _other_ things for you too, but . . ." I motioned to it again and she glanced at it.

Two lines in and my Jo-seph-ine clued in; I watched the dimples slowly show up at the corners of her mouth, getting deeper as she read along. I took the initiative to move closer and lift some of her hair away from her neck in lieu of getting some nuzzling in. When she reached the end of my little epic, she laughed out loud.

Best damned sound in the world.

So I kissed her neck and Josie squealed instead, turning to slip her arms around me, big and warm and perfect.

"That," she said, "is THE worst sonnet I've ever read, Nick. I _love_ it! I'm going to frame it and hang it over my bed."

"I'll have you know I went through a damned _ream_ of paper for that thing, woman! And if you think it's easy to find rhymes that don't sound like Doctor Seuss, think again!"

"Well you can tell me _all_ about it when you make me dinner," she sighed, and kissed me. When I let her up for air, she added, "Thank you. I really, really needed that today, Nick."

All I could do was nod, and I made a mental note to have a chat with a certain cupid-playing agent.

**Sonnet to a big round thang**

The preference of men for features sweet

On our women, oft are _sing_-u-lar

Some worship eyes or nose or even feet

And some, those as-pects_ far_ more vul-gar

I find myself in latter company

A man with tastes direct and slightly crude

And _though_ I'm numbered with the many

Who love to gaze upon their lovers nude

I find my stare directed down behind

To regions round and firm; so full of bounce

The cushions fair, temptation most unkind

They urge me on, demanding that I pounce

My lover fair in observation crass

Is mistress over me with _mmm_, dat ass


	15. Chapter 15

**Finkle**

The next few months went by without incident. At least, without any serious baby-related incidents. I kept doing my job with Cynara and dutifully kept track of the acceleration of her pregnancy. It didn't seem to be doing her any harm, but I wanted to be sure and documented everything.

It was hard to tell what factors were strictly related to the hybrid Human/Jotunn issue and which were due to the kidnapping, but from what I could see, Occam's razor seemed to apply, so I went with it. No point in worrying about the actual birth until it was time.

Cynara's hubby started delivering runestones to her, and it was a tad alarming to discover new boulders outside the outpost. Worse, when she started to translate them it became pretty apparent that most of them were granite resumes/tombstones/graffiti. She submitted reports on them and I got an earful from Fury when he texted me.

_We do not NEED ancient tagging in front of my base_.

_So tell Cynara; I'm a doctor, not a landscaper._

_I'm authorizing __**you**__ to tell her and her husband to stop with the rocks_.

_And what makes you think he'll listen to me?_

_Because you're the only one __**I**__ listen to._

_I miss you too, babe._

The thought kept crossing my mind that once 'Nara delivered her baby, I'd be out of a job. I knew enough about pediatrics to handle the basics, at least for a while but it wasn't my primary field, so I sent Fury a list of candidates to consider and began creating a casefile to help whoever got chosen get up to speed.

It was tough to think about the end of it all, though. I'd gotten fond of S.H.I.E.L.D. despite it all—Phil, Maria and Chief Agrino had become my friends, along with 'Nara and Thor. I won't say I was _completely_ comfortable with being part of a military organization, but getting out of my comfort zone had been good for me in a lot of ways.

And there was Nick. Infuriating, gorgeous, darling Nicholas Fury. I realized I'd been kidding myself about keeping things simple, and the honest-to-God problem was that I adored the man. It hurt to understand that our time together was coming to an end soon, so I tried not to think about it. Generally I could avoid the issue, but the quicker 'Nara's pregnancy accelerated, the more it preyed on my mind.

Phil kept an eye on all of us. I'd gotten used to him doing that, but now it was a bit more obvious once the baby had dropped, and it amused me to think he was genuinely excited about the impending birth. Thor was by turns jolly and worried, and a few of the agents assigned to the outpost were looking forward to it too—definitely a break in the routine, as it were. It felt good to know the general atmosphere was supportive, and so when I was approached by a young agent about family planning advice, I gave back.

That seemed to break the ice somehow and I started getting other agents stopping by to see me, or email me, and not just for birth control. They wanted to know about fertility problems and genetic testing and in-vitro procedures—all those concerns that didn't normally seem compatible with S.H.I.E.L.D. When I mentioned it to Phil—in a roundabout way, to protect confidentiality—he gave that little smile of his. "We're a huge organization, and only a fraction of our agents work full-time in the field, Josie. You've met most of the specialists, but the others, the vast majority out there have families, or want to have families. Your services _are_ needed."

"Seriously?" I couldn't seem to grasp it, even though the evidence kept coming through my office door.

Phil gave that little grin of his. "Word gets out."

"Huh," was all I could say, although I had a good idea that 'word' was being helped along by certain people in the know.

Then came the day. THE day. 'Nara and I were out at one of the stones—one of the ones farther out from the compound. She was translating, and I was supposedly helping her, though what I really was doing involved keeping an eye on her and getting out in the fresh air. Spring felt pretty good, and even though it kills me to admit it, parts of the prairie are actually gorgeous this time of year. I saw genuine real baby bunnies, and more species of birds that I ever did back in the tri-state area, that's for sure. Oh I still missed being able to step out for a Latte, and it sucked to be stuck with Netflix as primary entertainment, but this was nice.

All the way up until 'Nara went into labor, that is. Both of us were taken by surprise, but I got her back to the compound safely, fully prepared to check her vitals and see what was going on. She complained about being cold—not a good sign—and when I did the scans it was pretty clear that the fetus was hypothermic. Hypothermic and perfectly happy to be that way. Unfortunately 'Nara, being a red-blooded mammal needed to keep _her_ core temperature above ninety-five degrees, so I had a serious medical dilemma on my hands.

There were options, including a medically-induced coma, but I did NOT want to go to those if I could help it. This was already a dangerous, difficult pregnancy and I had no reassurance that any particular course of action would be the best one. That's the truly shitty part about being a doctor, by the way—knowing when something's wrong and _not_ knowing what is the best thing to do about it. It goes for all of us in the medical profession and I've never met a doctor who didn't hit that moral dilemma at least once in their careers.

And let's face it—when it's a 'save the mother or save the baby' impasse, it's thousands of times worse.

Luck held out again though, because 'Nara's hubby showed up and held her hand. Don't ask me exactly how that link worked—magic, science, as Thor would say, they're one and the same with those Asgardians. Whatever the case, his touch seemed to stabilize both 'Nara and the baby to a happy balance between them. Once that happened, things moved along a course I was familiar with, and Baby Lókisdottir AKA Nira Matilda was finally born at six thirteen on Saturday, May twenty-fifth.

Like 'Nara, I'd been up all that time too, so once mama and baby were stable and under the watchful eye of my S.H.I.E.L.D. medical assistants I toddled off up to my room, showered and dropped off to sleep, curling up under the covers and hoping nobody needed me for a while. I thought it would take me a while to sleep; usually I'm on an adrenaline charge after a birth, but I was out like the proverbial light this time, and woke up in time for dinner.

Phil had cooked; spaghetti by the wonderful smell of it. I tried to pry the recipe from him but he told me he'd sworn to his Las Vegas cop friend that he wouldn't give it out unless I'd promise to use the exact ingredients the first time I made it. I wasn't sure I could, so Phil and I were at a stalemate on it, but I was more than willing to eat his cooking, that's for sure.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is a little like the Mafia; you have to be prepared to feed the troops at any point," he told me. There really isn't anything cuter than Phil Coulson in a cook's apron over his suit, unless it's Nick in a cook's apron with nothing on underneath. (And yes, I _have_ seen that, so I know what I'm talking about.)

"Good to know you have domestic skills," I told him and took the plate he handed me. "So has 'Nara had anything to eat?"

"Yep, I made sure she did," Phil assured me. "And Loki. The director will be here in a few hours, so I've made enough for him as well."

I worked hard on my poker face. "Yeah? Well there may not be any left if Thor's around; this is great, Phil."

He managed that little smile of his and flipped a kitchen towel over his shoulder. "Thanks. I doubled the recipe to be on the safe side."

I finished it and went to go check on my patients, feeling energized by the food and rest, wondering if I should bring up the future or not with the colonel. Part of me wanted to and the other part wasn't so sure.

**Fury**

When the news came about the baby I'll admit I unclenched a bit. Coulson gave me the details and I tried to keep a disinterested expression but I won't lie that there was a sense of relief as well. I know women have been having babies since the dawn of time, and Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson was in the best hands I could think of, but that doesn't mean things couldn't have gone wrong. Especially with a baby with half of Loki's genetics in the mix.

Still it was good news in the general scheme of things and having the kid in the care of my best people meant I could focus on other matters. Unfortunately, global politics had turned up the heat, and as a result S.H.I.E.L.D. had been given the dubious honor of putting out several fires that the general public never heard about. Hill alerted me to a few tricky situations with media exposure—now that the entire planet was on-line it was getting harder to stay out of the limelight—and the council was demanding to know more details about our alien/human hybrid.

I'm telling you the shit never ends. Still, it was enough of an excuse to head to Canada. Plans were already in the works when Coulson called me and started in on some wild-assed intel about the runestones being inter-dimensional portals. Coming from anybody else I'd have blown it off, but this was Coulson, the agent who'd been brought back from the dead, so I gave it due consideration.

Fuckin' pissed me off, too. Oh I understood Loki's strategy just fine, and yeah, containment made sense compared to diffusion, but having ten potential hot spots in the front yard where Josie was stationed did NOT sit the fuck well with me. Not. At. All. Maybe that son of a bitch thought he and his brother could handle whatever might decide to step through, but in my lexicon, that ain't good enough.

Safe to say I wasn't in the happiest of moods when I touched down in Canada. The lawn looked like some damned graveyard, and Coulson had reinforced containment fencing and razor wire around the place as well. Fucking pain in the ass.

Saw the kid. I'm not one to make an issue about color, but the first time I saw her she was screaming her head off and looked about the same shade as a Boysenberry. Not just the face but all over, like a red-purple mini-Hulk in a diaper. Thor had her on his shoulder and he kept pacing, trying to quiet her down but she wasn't having a damned bit of it, wailing like a siren.

Took her, sat down and laid her face-down along my thigh, and then just held her there, rubbing her back. Thor knelt down; baby had her cheek against my knee, and right when he got close she let out a hell of a belch and a dribble of goo that managed to miss my pant leg, but not the floor.

"Well-done, little one!" Thor told her. "And you," he added to me as he wiped up the spit on the floor.

I picked the kid up and looked at her. She looked at me, fading into a sort of light purple now, with this jacked-up tuft of black hair on the top of her head. I'm not really comfortable with babies. Tend to scare the crap out of them, along with dogs, grandmothers, people on the street and fast-food workers. But she wasn't crying; didn't even seem too interested in the eyepatch, which is usually the draw. Instead she yawned and just kept looking at me.

So I looked back. Green eyes, like her parents, Loki's hair I guess, although I couldn't picture him with a Norfin troll 'do the way the kid had. Other than the lavender, she looked normal to me. I handed her off to Thor, who looked thrilled to take her. "Anything I should know about her?" I asked.

"Yes. My niece has a _mighty_ grip and a strong voice for one so young," Thor started up proudly, like he was giving a briefing. "Today she has heavily soiled _three_ diapers and slept through most of the morning."

"Good to see she's got goals. I meant was there anything _unusual_ about her I should know?" Sometimes I forget the man's not from around here. I tried not to make it obvious I was looking for someone else.

"Unusual?" Thor got confused. I noticed he didn't mention the kid's resemblance to Mildred Huxtetter. We were saved from further exchanges when Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson came in and took the baby from Thor.

"Colonel," she acknowledged.

"Special Technician Sigyn-Laufeyson. Congratulations." She looked a hell of a lot better than I expected her to, which I took as a good sign. Birth is still one of those last mysteries that I don't intend to dig into anytime soon, even if I _am_ dating someone who's generally elbows-deep in the process.

"Thank you. She's pretty great."

Thor slipped out and I studied at Sigyn-Laufeyson a little more closely, thinking there was something a little different about her eyes. Before I could verify it though, Finkle came in, and I got distracted.

In my defense it was mostly because she was wearing a fancy sheer blouse and jeans, which are not only _not_ S.H.I.E.L.D. attire, but also showcased parts of her like a Macy's window display.

"Colonel," she said, all professional-like.

"Doc-tor," I shot back at her, keeping it cool. "Congratulations on a successful delivery."

She held up her hands and gave a little throwaway grin. "'Nara did the work; I just facilitated. Sir," she added, in an afterthought that made me sure as _hell_ want to give her something to salute.

"I couldn't have done it without you and you know it," Sigyn-Laufeyson pointed out. "You and Loki."

This was getting too sentimental for me, so I spoke up. "Speaking of Loki, I think it's time he and I had a little talk."

"Agreed," Sigyn-Laufeyson nodded. "He's due back tonight; he and Thor were escorting his mother home."

Having seen the goddess in question I didn't think too many enemies would try taking a shot at her, even without two bodyguard sons.

"In the meantime, there's spaghetti," Finkle told me. "If you're hungry, that is."

"You two go on; Nira needs a bath."

I couldn't tell if it was a lucky break or if the fine hand of Agent Coulson was as work, but either way I wasn't going to argue. Waited until the two of them were gone before giving Finkle a Look.

She smiled. "I'm glad to see you."

"We," I told her as I got up, "need to talk. Since I'd like a closer look at these stones, I _think_ you'd better go with me."

So we ended up outside in the twilight, moving around a haphazard collection of rocks surrounded by chain link and razor wire—about as far from romantic as possible, and yet not a surprise either. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't your usual nine to five job, and I've long since realized every damned day brings something new in a very real sense.

"Jo-se-phine," I started, moving close and backing her up against one of the bigger stones. "Missed you."

She slipped her arms around me, gave me a hard hug and let me tell you the press of those curves did a _lot_ for my morale.

A lot for my courage.

A lot for my libido.

"Missed you too, sweetheart," she told me. "And I can't even _tell_ you how glad I am things went smoothly for the birth given the circumstances. I've got _reams_ of data for your teams to sort and analyze."

"Later," I said, and braced a hand on the stone by her head while I laid a good one on her. When we came up for air, I added, "This is probably going to be the _only_ time we're alone in the next few days and I'm _not_ going to spend it on natal hybrid data, woman. Truth is, I'm not ready to let you go, Josie Finkle."

She was gonna say something but I never found out what, because at that precise damned moment, we fell through the portal that had_ just_ opened up behind her back.


End file.
